Chasing Fire
by TwistedNym
Summary: [Modern AU, Thomas/Maven, Part 3]The city burned and Thomas is left with a broken heart. His friends are wanted criminals and the boy he loved is clearly not alright. With the city in clear unrest, he tries to settle in and survive. He hasn't anticipated Maven, though. Trust is a very thin line and a double-edged sword.
1. Fine

Some days nothing goes the right way.

Some times seriously are bad. There's blow after blow.

 _You are ok._

He looks at his face in the mirror and repeats it at times like that. The white light makes it almost a little grayish. Like the ash in the air and the hearts on the streets. He stares silent at his reflection. At the circles around his dark eyes.

 _You are ok._

Yes, he is. Dreams and words cannot break him.

 _There's good._

 _Think of the good things. Gotta push past._

He tries to pull up the positive energy inside him.

He thinks about the jabs and the laughter,of the brimming inside him.

It doesn't work.

His hands grip the sink. Holding him uptight.

Thomas looks at his hands, at the ink curling under the skin, forming patterns of flames and steel.

He thinks of all the hours of planning, of drawing. He thinks of the sirring needle and the pain. Pain that was worth it.

That works. Pain can be worth it, healing will come. He holds onto that. It works for the tiniest of moments, before his heart breaks and reassembles again for the millionst time.

It's fine though. It's the way things go. Not like he didn't know it would be that way. Memories can be like shards cutting his skin, but sometimes they are warming him just the same. Life is learning, isn't it?

Thomas holds onto the hope that things cannot turn that worse. At least he sees faces he likes.

He's trying to be somehow positive. They all know it's half wishful thinking and pretending. But it's better than senseless moping. He has done enough of that, hasn't he?

Some days are good.

The weather isn't half bad and the friendly faces stick.

Getting your crush to carry your grocery bag is good. Having some fun because it's the bag that has written 'Emotional Baggage' on it is good. "Seems it's your turn, " Thomas says, pointing at the sad face. "Don't worry. I'll take it back. Eventually."

Green eyes are better than blue ones for Thomas.

Making a bad joke about bananas and getting a comeback is worth the rejection.

It's not hurting any more than usual. It's safe.. It's fine.

Someone compliments his tattoos.

He can give a smug look and a smile.

He's not made out of glass. Things will get good. If he sticks to it. No more late night calls. No more messages.

You win, he wrote as goodbye. That loss hits all the wrong points in his soul. You win, he wrote, and he means it.

 _You win. I give up. I am still in too deep. But we both know that that's meaningless. You choose your turn and I will stop bothering. You don't love me. It'll be okay some day. Sure I still dream of you. Sure I'd like to see you. But it won't be. So lemme move. Doesn't matter where._

Things take a new turn one evening. He sits in the, eh, let's call it, rustically furniture, he decides, new hideout of his favorite kickass friend. Though Lightning and Cameron fight Farley for the position, she's got a head start since all the days he spent on her couch.

"How was your job interview?"

Thomas makes a wet farting sound. "The guy was a snob. Seriously. "

He stares at Farley through his shaggy mop of hair. Seems as he lets it sprout she cuts it down even more. It's so short it looks shaved off. Suits her though. When he met her she had so long hair it fell down her back.

"He was asking questions about me dropping out of school, and why I thought I'd ever had a chance. And then he gave the job to a dude with shiny shoes."

He knows she glances at his rundown boots. They were ruined the last summer. Now the sole has finally decided it can't take anymore and is basically no existent anymore. He lets it go by uncommented. He can live without her making any kind of remark that hits the core. Or kicking his ass.

Because they both know he really tries . But he could do better. He had his life in perfect control for the shortest of while. He had a nice job, a haircut and progress. And then all of this happened. And he burned his hands in the attempt to be enough.

He isn't shabby like homeless days. He showers, at least. He still wears pants with holes on his knees and boots that fall apart. No wonder job interviews don't take a good turn.

"And he took the whole day for telling you that?"

"Nah." Thomas eyes a paper bag on the table that looks suspiciously like food. " I sat in a park for three hours and wondered why I even try. Not like having a job matters when everything goes down the gutter, right?"

"Your life. You decide." She just answers and he gets a big guilt flowing through his belly.

He takes a peek into the bag and sniffs. He regrets it when he sees it is some sort of asian food. It smells fishy. His shellfish alarm rings and he retreats.

"Yeah, well. True. That's a lot of disgusting food. Where's everyone?"

"On their way, as far as I know."

„Cool."

„And I meant to tell you," She doesn't sit down, just leans on the edge of the table, arms crossed. „Good news. That mugshot of yours is gone. And the video is deleted too."

„Your work or what?" Thomas takes a deep breath."Appreciated."

„I had nothing to do with it." She answers to his surprise. „It was just removed."

Why? He wonders. The damage is done. He wasn't able to work against it. Why remove it?

Doesn't make much sense. Maybe it was just a tad too personal in the end. A tad too close to something that was good for the shortest of while.

He's got no delusion it could mean anything than another turn in the strategy.

People got ugly after his face was staring back from the screen. Some was the usual harassment when someone's sexual orientation is in question. Not like Thomas was in a closet. He just never introduced himself with it. Some was aimed just at his raggedy looks. Straight up mean shit. At least most people left his hobbies alone. That hurts the most.

Oh, look, he thought, reading the insults and messages. It's like I am in school again.

Now it cooled down. There's still some. But sure enough, when he searches for the stuff, even though he doesn't want to see Maven's face, it's gone.

Next one popping up is Shade. Thomas doesn't get up to greet him, just looking up from his phone for a second to wave.

„Look who's still alive," he just mutters and turns away, just in time to see him lean down and give Farley the tiniest of kisses.

He's not spiteful, but something in him mourns a little. For things he'll not ever have. For missed opportunities. The veteran heart salutes to the pain again for the blink of an eye before he smiles it away and leans back on his chair, crossing his legs.

„I'm hungry." He says when he's sure not to disturb any moment.„Don't tell me I get nothing. You know my kryptonite."

„Yours is marked." She just says and he buries into the bag, until he finds some plastic with an X on it.

"Oh Mom, you're so good to me."

* * *

He stares at all the faces, the glossing over their deaths, their injuries, their disappearance.

Some of the faces are old. Some are very young.

That's the worst part. Knowing this goes on. That it's bad and that all that feeling shit Thomas has, coping on the loss of someone he couldn't hold, is nothing in comparison.

He's reminded of all the big words and the talk when he used to crash on Farley's couch as a homeless.

Of his bitterness, thinking _life is bad, boho,_ thinking they should just get over it.

Thomas, idiot and asshole par excellence. None of them deserve what's coming.

The curfew is still intact and now that they raid everything hideouts are frequently pushed.

No one has raided his flat yet. After all his pictures and propaganda, he's a little surprised. But then again, there's kind of a blind spot on his block most days . It's not the fancy part of town but still not the worst. It's there, just as Thomas.

Sometimes he sees a police car rolling down the street. But that's it.

He's not reckless. He knows some people get arrested for hacking stuff. Or other accusations. He stays on his window most nights, watching circling lights and thinking of dark guns pointed at heads.

He stays away, careful, up until the day in the crowd brings it all back. Until he feels motion sick again.

"Ugh" Thomas stares at the architectural masterpiece of white stone and black glass. The place gives him the creeps. The crowd doesn't help. Between metal barriers and too close. Too much yelling. Too much angry energy. It reminds him painful of the tower bomb. He takes in the signs and the flags, the whirring of arms. The air is so cold it makes his breath rise in little white clouds as he speaks. „See? No coming through. What do you even want here?"

His sister's phone aims high, filming something. „What, Tommy, show some enthusiasm. It's a big day."

Thomas rolls his eyes, looking for a way to get out. This makes him uncomfortable. „For the other side, Hanni. They are debating on how to purge us. No one's speaking on behalf of lowlife folks."

„Just because they know they'd loose." She turns the phone around. He sees she films the crowd. „Look how many people came."

Yeah, he sees it. He sees the bodies, the maelstrom. Swallowing every bit of rational conscience and turns it into foul anger.

As if signs can change whatever will go on in there.

He fears something else too.

Not only an escalation outside. But one inside himself.

Don't be silly, he tells himself. Elara is inside that building. She was probably the first person inside there. And if she even brought him is another question.

But of course, he'd be with her.

On a day like this in public? Sure as hell.

He's like on of those little dogs some women bring along in her bag. He'll stand in the background, waiting for a sign to jump in and impress her.

Or just saying whatever she told him to.

There's pain cramping his chest. Familiar.

Thomas takes a deep breath.

There's no reason to worry.

He's one in a million, below average, just as Elara told him. No one would be able to make him out. Even if they were looking. And why would he even look? He made it very clear what he thought of Thomas.

He stands still and tries not to look like he will panic.

Someone blows a whistle next to his ear. The ringing high screeching sound makes Thomas flinch. And his head still rings after the whistle goes silent again.

He feels cold despite his jacket and scarf. Despite the crowd around him holding off the cutting wind.

„Can we go? Please."

His sister looks over. There's worry in her eyes. „Five minutes."

Thomas stares, craning his neck, and he's positive he's going to be sick.

He notices the cameras and news crews. He wishes one of his other friends was here. But they are too recognizable. There's still an open case because of the towers, and Farley needs to keep low profile. Same as Warren. Shade is just never anywhere where you expect him. Even if he was hanging around, Thomas is positive he's so well hidden and on the move Thomas wouldn't see him.

And if Lightning was to show her face, in front of an institution, he's sure the crowd would go mayhem.

At least he's in close proximity to his sister.

The car pulls up as close as possible, and there's some commotion on both sides of the barrier. Angry shifting, someone blocking his side. Thomas gets a glimpse of a dark blue coat and ashen hair, and the way people move he knows hoping was in vain.

For a second, someone moves and he cranes his neck again. Just to see he's right. Behind all that bodies and security measures, there's the boy he once loved.

„I guess the Queen can be late just to prove a point." His sister huffs. When she looks over, she puts the phone down. „Tommy?"

Thomas isn't answering. Instead he just stares at the hunched shoulders in the dark coat, that look that doesn't see anything below him. As if he's above it all. As if there's no person worth to be looked at.

But the shoulders expose the truth. Just for Thomas. Just for him. A secret they share.

His face is thin, skin pulled tightly over sharp edges. He looks sick as hell. Like he hasn't slept in weeks.

No way he's alright.

It makes Thomas almost feel sorry. But just almost. He's too caught up in pretending.

Pretending he doesn't care anymore. Pretending he isn't still hurt about that stab in his back and the lies.

He remembers the way he lost it when he put a piece of paper away that reminded him of a different version of himself. Crying and hugging himself because it was too much for a while. Even too much to say goodbye.

 _It's fine. This is fine. You don't care. You know the hurt. He doesn't care. He doesn't even see you._

Thomas bites his lip.

Where is that anger that made him throw stones? Is it gone if he can't lean on Barrow?

Profusely living through other people was always his thing. Cause he's a stinky little coward who chose to run away from responsibility. What's better than to look up to someone stronger than him and let them handle it?

Where is the solitude when he pretends to crush on another boy, one that doesn't even like him this way? One that's not ever going to hurt him because he doesn't CARE that way? Because he doesn't know where to poke and where to touch to make him lose his mind and all his reasons?

It falls down. It's in _shambles_.

He's back again, not able to get over it.

And that's the reason he didn't even want to look at Maven in a video.

"Tommy?" his sister repeats. "Do you wanna leave?"

Instead of answering he moves back, through the crowd, clawing and showing not paying attention, just back and out before he finally finds a gap and pushes through.

Then he leans forward, hands on his thighs and tries to breathe.


	2. Stitches

Thomas pulls the headphones out of his ears and stares at Barrow with the critical expression of a person not even wanting to have an opinion. „Dunno, Lightning. I mean her voice is good. But she's just telling the world her love life is shitty complicated in ten songs , and two or three are about her being treated wrong and how she's pushing through society. It's not smacking me in the face and telling me how mean and awesome it would be to hear more. „He shrugs." But hey, I am not into music at all. You do you."

Her thumb hits a button and the voice echoing outside the headphones dies.

„But you listen to it sometimes, so you got to have a favorite band or artist."

He doesn't have to think much about it. „Nah. I was into Black Metal and shit when I was 15? But only to piss people off. I get the whole emotional part and the way art transfers through noise. Just don't like it so much." He doesn't speak about his first love and the headphones glued to his ears, the always running speakers and the music bubbing out of it, wrapping around Thomas when he sat on the bed the day before he went home and left him.

He gives her leather jacket and the band shirt a nod. „Suits you and your wannabe punk style tho."

She narrows her eyes slightly.

„Look who's talking. One manbun or glasses and you're the uber-hipster."

Thomas gasps, looking down at his faded hoodie, being greeted by the print of everyone's favourite wookie , down to the holes in his pants. „I put all my money aside when I was 14 to buy that one. I was cool before people-„ He stops himself. „Please let's settle , our style is misunderstood."

At least Lightning doesn't hit him. Cookies fists are fast to hit him. He looks at his phone, checking the time. Then he decides to change the topic.

„Thought you'd doing your courier slash underground slash running. With the debates and stuff I bet people are going insane. And next week will be big with decisions."

Barrow stretches her legs and Thomas wants to give her a pat because she looks tired a second.

Aren't we all? He thinks. The whole world is exhausted, draining energy out of people.

„Got a warning." She says. „Don't ask. It was very strange. I don't even know who warned Farley. Was some internet stuff. No name and nothing. But it was very specific."

„Mysterious. An insider. Ohh." Thomas plays with her headphones, twirling them around."Sometimes I think this whole thing is cool. Then I remember how I failed and fell down a fence for Warren to drag me back through the streets."

„You are better behind a screen drawing."

„Figured you say that." He takes it without any ill means. „ Can't all be rebel girls I guess."

They share some moments of silence, stretching limbs and not looking at each other.

The hole in his chest is content for a while. She recharges his batteries, to make a bad electricity joke.

When it knocks, he's slow to get on his feet.

„That's my pickup." He explains . Thomas says as goodbye to Barrow and pats the back rest of the couch. Then he picks up his bag.

He chuckles when he finds a pretty face with a pissy expression waiting behind the door.

„Wanna go inside and chat?"

„No. Move your skinny ass."

Funny enough, he knew Lightning and Cookie wouldn't hit it off at the start. May take some time to get them cuddly nice with each other. They both talk people off all the time, and they're similar in some ways. Thomas just isn't good at connecting people. But he tries.

„Getting friendly?" he asks her.

„The fuck are you talking about?"

„You didn't tell Cal to go to hell last time and didn't snarl in Lightning's direction. I call that progress."

„Whatever."

„Aw, Cookie is making friends."

„One more word" she threatens. „Just start walking."

He smiles, even though she's not looking.

„Boo, why would I-„ he starts and regrets life when she whirls around. Her crooked fingers grip his ear and drag him down the porch. „Why?" he says in the most pitiful voice he can muster, hunched over and almost stumbling beside her.

* * *

 **Halloween next week.** Thomas writes. He's sure he's the only one ever writing in that group chat and after he spammed dog videos he's fairly convinced everyone has muted or blocked him.

 **Please tell me someone knows what's up?**

There's an excruciatingly long silence. Then he just scrolls back and clicks on the dogs.

Because dogs are ok. They aren't going to leave you. Not like asshole cats.

He thinks he deals with a childhood trauma, making the neighbors cat a specimen representing all cats. But still. That cat was a huge asshole and it crushed his enthusiasm for cats with his fat tabby paws.

After a while, someone writes back.

Seems he's the only one really looking forward to Halloween. People underestimate the day of weird costumes, drinking and eating too much candy. Screw birthdays. Give Thomas two Halloween.

This year, at least, he's not sick and homeless and gets discarded because he's a secret boyfriend.

The thought doesn't sit so well.

He scrambles to his feet, putting the phone in his pocket and decides to steal some warm water, midnight showers and all. The best.

He stands under the shower until the water turns cold. Even that only stops him because he starts to shiver, arms covered in goosebumps and spine twitching. The mirror is covered in steam when he finally steps out, and the air is still humid and clinging to his lungs in the small room.

Water drips from his hair down onto the screen when he picks it up.

He regrets even looking.

Life won't leave him alone. Why can't it just stay dead? Their relationship is like some sort of monster, resurrected and stitched together, half falling apart and quite frankly put, pretty dead. But still not quite. The monster is still up and running , making noise and shuffling senseless around.

He lets it ring. It doesn't stop.

Even when he's done putting on his clothes it still rings excruiciatly loud and full of pity.

He answers the phone. "Got the wrong number. "

"So you do know how to answer a call, what a pleasant surprise."

Thomas grimaces.

"I am sorry I am not jumping right when you whistle. Why should I not hang up right now?"

„I could beg. Would that be to your liking?"

Thomas laughs, dry and sharp, cutting through the humid air. „As if I would believe it, dude."

"I suppose you wouldn't. Even though you do have a soft heart."

"Don't you have henchmen or employees you can call in the middle of the night and shittalk to? Or is it something in my face that makes you want to be an asshole?"

Maven sighs, and Thomas can't stop thinking it sounds exasperated, like this call is a nuisance he has to get through. Like Thomas used to think about laundry or dirty dishes.

„Let us wrap this up quickly, so we both can move on."

„Yeah, business and all." Thomas huffs. He channels all his monk patience to not say or do anything more stupid.„ People will make fun of me cause I am an idiot. But ok. Let's get it over. The sooner you get your bullshit out the sooner I can hang up."

„You always had your way with words," Maven says very cold and somehow amused.

„Can't compete with your silver tongue," Thomas lashes back without mercy. „Bit hard if one has at least one honest bone stuck in their body."

„First off, before you insult me any further." There's a little echo as he shifts and talks. Sounds like Thomas isn't the only person in a bathroom. Well isn't that something. Hiding in a bathroom to call him.„I retracted the article and the mugshot accusing you. It's minimized the damage a little. Take it as a token to prove I did not call to harm you."

Does that change the words? Thomas thinks. Does it change the fact you said and plotted it in the first way?

Does it change the other lies? The other betrayals? No no.

His heart is racing too fast in his chest.

„You won, I congratulated you. No more me nagging on you to change stuff." He finally manages to press words out of his throat. They sound defeated. "So there's that."

„Oh,Thomas." Oh sweet, sweet stupid Thomas. Thomas feels cold and uncomfortable. It's really not just anger. It's just... „Nothing is won yet."

It's not _fair_. But he knew that all the time.

„Tell your friends to stay off and low next week. Because this is far from over. And far from the worst. If they show their faces, they'll get severely hurt."

„Is that a threat again?"

„Merely a warning." Maven assures him. „I was sure one of you at least would listen."

Something pricks him in the back of his head, a suspicion. „Wait," he can't stop himself. „Did YOU tip Farley off about something?" There's another question behind it. Why would you do that?

„I didn't speak a word to Diana Farley." He says.

No answer, Thomas thinks.

He wouldn't, would he? That would imply genuine interest and honesty.

Or maybe he's just trying to creep under Thomas skin. Not that he would need to do anything to stay there. He's got the best place for the rest of his life reserved.

„You're acting shady, pretty boy." Not like he wasn't shady before, Thomas thinks.

„I can't share any details with you, unfortunately. So you have only my word. Take it or leave it, Thomas."

They play their silence game again, but this time Thomas isn't willing to back off anytime soon. It's challenging and it's not friendly. It's hurt feelings and cold anger clashing. If it wasn't already freezing cold it would probably drop a few degrees everywhere.

„Then I will leave it." Thomas answers. He inhales the air deep, deep into his lungs. It helps keeping his voice stable when all he wants to do is a mixture of curling together and smash his head against a wall. Because the zombie relationship just repeats walking away , out of the grave,and it hates talking. It hates rational thinking and it hates him, gnawing at his brain.

„I expected nothing else." There's a decent amount of mock, but something in Thomas wants to believe it's genuine and just trying to hide all the pain. In another life Thomas would have asked. Now he doesn't. He doesn't dare. And he doesn't want to anymore. Care and love get deflected and parried in smooth moves anyway or just used for an advantage,as the way he's tossed even his brother away can prove. Foolish. This hot and cold chase wasn't healthy.

„Whatever." Thomas huffs. „ If you tipped her off, good. But still hard to think you mean it as help. Maybe you are trying something."

There's silence on the other side of the call. Not challenging this time. Thomas can imagine Maven shifting and bristling . It's frightening how well he can imagine the evading eyes and the folded hands. The back straight and the blank face. Like every bit of all of his mannerisms have burned in his soul, an extention from himself. He can imagine the collected breath and the way the truth gets swallowed.

"What if I wanted to help you?"

"All of a sudden? Nah. I don't buy it. I told you to get it together and you told the world I was a druggie and liar for it."

"We made some bad calls. I will admit that."

"That's not enough. And we know it."

As if there was a we. As if there ever had been one the last months. There always is Maven and the rest of the world. And somewhere in between there's Thomas. Never enough. And never right.

"I called you to give you a warning. I delivered it. So it seems we can end this charade."

"Thanks, pal. " Thomas mocks. "And thanks for stopping to lie about me."

There's the slightest indifferent hum on the other side of the call. „Your hostility is downright charming, Thomas."

The words don't sound as sharp as Thomas expected, just very dry. If this wasn't Maven and he wasn't Thomas thrown in the trash to him, he could even take it as something lighter.

He answers just as dry. „Got more where that comes from, promise."

„Another time maybe."

„Looking forward to it, Mave."

When he's done he stares at his hand and the phone as if it was possessed.

The flames move when he grips the phone very hard, staring at the cracks in the screen.

Words are his enemies. Not fair. His heart is beating so fast it will jump out of his throat any second.

They are like two birds on a wire, playing some game who can stay longer. One will plummet for sure.

He wants to believe that warning was genuine.

He can't.

Not after what happened. Chance after chance, hands outstretched, bodies tangled.

Let's not go there.

Every alarm in him is ringing.

With a beeping alarm, the door closes and he sits down in a blue faded seat opposite of it, staring right through the stained glass into the grey sun, trying in vain to warm a cold wet ground.

Mud cloaks boots and leaves footprints on the spotted dark grey-blue plastic.

Plastic. Everything is plastic.

Thomas leans back on his seat, squeezed between a girl with too loud music blaring out of headphones and a man half asleep.

He takes a deep breath. Smells of notes of winter chills, a whiff of dust and rain, seeping into clothes and lying in thin fog over bodies. He has smelled worse from the times he slept outside. He once took a nap between trash bags. One of them was leaking and everything smelled of foul yoghurt fermented in stale summer air.

A lot of things have changed since then. But that's just the world mocking him for holding on to unspeakable dreams and memories. He always knew he was an idiot.

He's got three more hours to beat around before he can go home and pretend he tries to be useful in any way.

After another ride, senseless getting in and out of the train, he drops out in the middle of the city. In the distance along the road, he sees the cannibalized monster of the center he used to attend.

He turns left and wanders down the road until he finds himself in a park.

He sits down and stares at the scorched grass, the metal barriers that weren't here last summer,and the destroyed trash cans. At least they cleaned up. Trying to conceal the damage. Still.

Park has seen better days. It has nothing in common with the one he remembers when he watched pigeons and wanted to kiss a boy in a blue sweater.

And I am back again, Thomas notices. Can't turn my brain away from it. Great.

He wishes it wasn't so. Probably getting on everyone's nerves . Farley says he jeopardizes her stuff. Lightning wouldn't talk it out. She's keeping it all up. Took a lot if time to get her to spill it. And Cameron calls going to the bathroom 'taking a Maven' whenever he's around.

For a while, he watches the quiet swaying branches of the naked trees.

Muddy brown leaves have gathered below. The sky is still grey and clouded.

He stares at the freckled clouds and wonders if anyone would notice if he just stayed, not going home when the curfew is in place.

He guesses his friends would, probably, sooner than later. Maybe his sister would tell his parents.

Family isn't his strong suit. He hasn't seen his mother and sister for weeks. That's about the only regret. With his father around and all. He works so hard to make his girls life better. And every time Thomas name is even mentioned he nags on him for all my life choices. He stresses so much he'll probably drop dead from a heart attack. Mean to think that. But that man's a machine slowly running out of steam. He's not taking good care of himself. At least one thing they have in common. Probably the only one.

He can't bring himself to hate the man. He was okay until Thomas hit puberty and evolved into the book picture of a rebellious edgy teenage boy. He's still far from willing to listen to insults and long list passive aggression if he can avoid it.

Oh, the joy of having a conservative father. A father that's returned from battlefield and had to find a normal place for himself. Weary and burdened and fucked like everyone else. A father clinging to the thought that knowing one's place and staying there is better than uncertainty.

I get it, he once said, poking and cold when they were fighting. You had it tough. But that was 20 years ago. Things change. And I am not into guys to piss you off.

Needless to say, the discussion took a turn avoiding the gay question and focusing on what a failure the rest of his life was up to that point.

Looking at other families he's having it alright. Nothing world moving, no death, no abuse. He shouldn't complain.

Wind creeps under his scarf. He shudders.

No, sitting in the cold gets uncomfortable fast. No one knows it better than him, remembering last autumn. He can't avoid it. And it's hard to ignore it.

"Oh boy," he whispers to the leaves at his feet. "Who am I kidding? I'll call back anyway. Whatever people tell me if I ask them."

The relationship zombie gets another few stitches.


	3. Safety lines

"This is Thomas," he says to himself mirrored in the cracked screen of his phone. "And you tuned in to your daily dose of bullshit. Welcome, welcome."

His reflection makes a humble bow, hair flying, before his eyes return to the screen for a moment, watching the blinking red light hinting the recording. He looks terrible, but he smiles with as much bravado as he can.

"I am not sure how much news will show it. Cause, y'know, props to propaganda, and since most of you guys are kinda wanted or famous, lemme be the first to present this morning's newest fashion trend. It's guns and queues!"

He tilts the camera slightly, over his shoulder.

Behind him, down the train station, everything is polluted with security measures. There are heavy weapons and darkly clad figures with steel in their boots, ready to kick and beat the shit out of any suspicious person. He holds the picture of beaten figures in a queue and the way the people shuffle down, like prisoners in a row.

"They control you. And if you don't have some permission or badge to leave in the inner parts of the city you are definitely screwed. I saw a dude try to argue. Guess where he is now?" He snorts. " Well, not free to go, that's for sure. I was blocked out and told to fuck off. But at least no one tased me." He makes a celebration wave into the air.

People give him a weird look.

A dog barks behind the barriers. When he peaks into the phone he sees a big brown monster of a shepherd dog, barking and sniffing the latest control. Thomas loves dogs. He wouldn't touch that one if his life depended on it. The way it tilts its ears and sniffs cautiously makes clear it's doing a job. It's sharp and trained and ready. Well, that's certainly new. The other stations didn't have dogs. Must be because of the close proximity to the fancy buildings and all the high and mighty decision makers. He's almost up to the hills. No wonder they take it to a new level.

Thomas doesn't want to know what happens next. He doesn't look at his phone. But he hears an angry voice and spilled words in the station. Another sharp bark before it's too silent again and there's no shuffling of feet and breathing until a voice announces the next train.

His rabbit heart beats fast in his chest.

At least so early in the morning there are no children. After he saw that guy getting arrested, he's sure that would have made things indefinitely worse.

"Hey Mom, " Thomas says to his reflection, dark eyes and tousled hair. "Remember when I said this empire doesn't have a death star? Well, guess I was wrong. The emperor clearly has shit down and planned. "

He thought long and hard, but it's pretty clear who the rolls are given to. Because it's true what Maven told him very often. When he's bored he has the strangest thoughts and weirdest ideas. Train rides can be pretty boring. And maybe he just needed to distract himself from the tingling danger on his back.

Fitting that roles on them wasn't as easy. Still needs rethinking. Isn't as perfectly fitting as he would have thought.

Here I am, he thinks, comparing my friends to some characters in movies. And I would still be some guy running through the screen once.

Whatever I am, don't make me the dude that watches senseless on that tower on the rebel base, he thinks.

"As far as I saw from the train they have stations like this everywhere." He turns the phone again, slightly. There's a beeping sound and someone argues at the barricades again, shouting about needing to get to work. Funny enough, the whole queue is lowlife folks. You can do it with the Red Shit, Thomas thinks. "Curfew's not enough."

"HEY!" one of the guards closer to Thomas shouts.

Thomas looks back. "Oh oh, think he means me." He says with as much fuck it attitude as he can though he's deadly scared. Pretending to have an audience makes it a little easier.

"Yes, Sir?" he musters innocent enough.

"TURN THE CAMERA OFF." The man commands. His gloved hand makes a rude shoving gesture.

"But I'm sending cute faces with dog filters to my friend." Thomas jokes.

The man moves into his direction and Thomas moves just as fast away to keep a little distance between them. He's not too keen on a cell or worse. "I'M NOT WARNING YOU AGAIN."

"There goes my internet fame." Thomas sighs. His hand has started shaking slightly. At least his voice is steady enough. He lets the phone move in a long drawn curve the last time. Taking in the station and the hunched backs and tired eyes. Down into the darkness of the tunnel. "Bye for now, dudes and girls. Hope this helps."

He puts the phone down just in time to see the black-clad guard move closer again.

"I put it away." He tries to be calm, surrendering with his hands in the air, palms facing the man. "Chill, okay?"

He's glad he never takes the gun with him he was still in his room, hidden behind the tattoo machine in the bag. He's sure he would be dead if he did.

"Don't try again." The man hisses.

On the other side of the tracks, a train rushes through, not even stopping. The blast of air steals every word from Thomas lips he might have said.

There's some commotion on the other side of the barrier and metal again.

This time because people are let in.

It's like watching a shepherd put sheep into an enclosure.

Fitting regarding the dog and all.

He turns away and stares into the dark nothingness of the tunnel, waiting for the only way out. He doesn't dare to even put his hands in his pockets, where his phone rests, thinking of the boy shot months ago because he was too close to a fence.

No thanks, Thomas is internally forming a plan to sprint down a tunnel, crossing the safety lines with one foot, because all of this is not to his liking at all.

The night in the cell comes to mind, and he's sure jails are full.

 _Oh, Thomas. Nothing is won yet._

He remembers Maven's voice and hurries to get on the train as soon as the doors open. True enough. This isn't a win. This is not a win at all.

He wonders what will happen next. Maybe he doesn't want to be there when it happens.

Later that day his sister is just as tousled and angry when she comes home and finds him crosslegged at the table, slurping on something that used to be some sort of pasta.

"What is that?" she asks horrified, staring at the massacre of crippled improvised everything.

"Ehhh," he makes. "Some sort of chili and brown gravy? Oh, and that cheese you hid from me. And...I think that used to be an onion? It's not the worst."

"How did you even..?" She looks at the dish in front of him as if it will turn alive and wobble over to her. "Nevermind. I'm glad you're okay, Tommy. I saw your post."

"Yeah, well, I was just cruising around. Know me. I used to do that when I couldn't keep my head straight. But seems inner city and all the official buildings are closed for now."

"I may have some good news." She has the same hazel hair as his mother, and with her hair up like this she reminds him of her so much it's unnerving. "I asked my boss if you could jump in the free temp. Clean up next week, you got a job interview."

He licks his fingers. "You told him I dropped outta school and can barely do the math, yeah?"

"Can you copy a million papers and make coffee while people treat you like trash?"

"Ehh," he makes and doesn't want to sound disgusted because he knows how this will end. But he can't crush her. Not when she's trying hard.

"Tommy," she says. "I can't pay everything forever. Barely got enough for food since you stopped working."

"Sorry about that. Had stuff going on. Y'know. That kind of stuff that keeps you up and hurts."

"I know." She sighs, sitting down next to him. "And I really hope you have a nice boyfriend one day. You deserve it."

"Aww," he makes. In truth, he can't really breath for a second. Isn't that what he told himself often enough?

 _Have a nice boyfriend one day or just stay alone and spent a lazy evening on the couch._

And what does he think about when he sees a movie or hears music? Why doesn't he even attempt to look at certain things and doesn't like the color **blue**?

Maybe staying alone is enough. Really alone. Not lonely alone. Just content and able to sleep and eat and breathe without second thoughts.

The day turns worse every moment.

"And now get that smelly stuff out of my kitchen and clean the dishes," she bosses. "I haven't eaten since lunch and this makes me wanna puke."

"Pfff, bread girl. Not everyone has your taste." Would probably be easier if he still had taste buds at all. All he really likes is either a pile of sugar or salt crusted. He wobbles the dirty brown mess in front of her a few times before stuffing it into his mouth with two big bites and slides his dish half over the table before picking it up.

The water takes forever to warm up in the sink, so he just scrubs until it looks decent enough.

"You coming next week? Mom invited us over to dinner."

For a moment he thinks about making so much noise he can pretend he hasn't even heard her. But she'd just ask again. He can be childish, but that's just plain silly. He could as well just put his hands over his ears and sing.

He scrubs the plate so hard the sponge almost scrapes over it. Water splashes up the dark lines along his arms and to his rolled up sleeves.

"Why would I miss our Dad telling me I am worthless?" He jokes half-heartedly.

"Thomas," Hannah says, sighing deeply. "He's not telling you that cause...You know how he is."

"But he does say it. Should have seen him at my birthday. Or Christmas. And not like it's limited to holidays."

"You know he loves you, Tommy." She tries. "He's just not good on showing that he's worried."

Does he know? Thomas just shrugs. He can't deal with more rejection. He should be used to it by now. It stinks.

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

Cameron stays over. Something she hasn't done for quite a while. He remembers her outstretched limbs and his crying form under a blanket and he's sure he'll never be able to repay her for keeping the lonely at bay.

He talks about senseless things, about the five times he needed to go over the lines on his hand because the ink wouldn't stick so well, about the dog on the station. He keeps the warning for himself. He doesn't tell anyone. He can't say anything to her. She seems like she has finally something stable. Though she's awful quiet.

"You got a home now, yeah?" he wants to make sure. "And your brother?"

"Don't wanna talk about it."

He's learned that there is no coming through if she's outright refusing.

He retreats to his usual form of making fun of something.

„Just for me," Thomas says, wiggling the ears in his hand.

„No. And why do you even have this?" She eyes the black cat ears in his hand with pure disgust.

Thomas looks at the plastic band and the pieces of fabric attached to it.

„My sister is boring. She was a witch, a cat, you call it. And she recycles her costumes."

„Your sister is basic sometimes." Cameron huffs. Thomas imagines if he was to dress her truly up it would about blood and gore. Something to irritate people. Ah, if only he had mastered useful skills to make that happen. Draw means makeup and stuff.

Now that's something. Hyping people for his favorite day of the year and he hasn't even thought about a costume or anything remotely related.

„Don't tell her" he warns. „or she'll blab about pixel art and try to prove you wrong."

He slowly reaches out and tries to move the ears closer to her head. He's sneaky but she watches closely. It's like trying to pat a grizzly.

„I'll break your arm, asshat." She says, blinking slowly.

Thomas ponders about the pro and contra. Then he reaches over and puts the cat ears on her dark hair.

When she turns her head and gives him a pissed look he can't stop laughing. He almost rolls off the mattress when she takes the ears off and throws them across the room. The plastic crashes right into his drawer.

"Please never change." he laughs.  
Cause change is a double-edged sword. It can be as glorious as it can be degrading. It can make you fall and stumble, and it makes people turn away. Or come back.  
Sometimes you don't want the change that comes, and sometimes it just comes too fast. Rushing past like a blast of air in a train station.

They spend the rest of the evening bickering like they always do. She gets quiet again and he seriously hopes this time it doesn't end with a bottle in her face. And a big boom. He's not sure his black and blue heart can stand to lose anything anymore.

When she's fast asleep and already poking her elbow in his side again he takes his phone and decides to get it over with. In case this hurts, and it will cross the safe path and straight march into dangerous territory no matter what happens, having a lifebelt seems like a good idea.


	4. If we were honest

_**[AN] Hey Daisey, I can't stop loving this comments. So thank you 3 Also..hype for the Halloween chapter . Thomas isn't the only one looking forward :))**_

* * *

It's the middle of the night and everything is fine. Really, it's okay. He's a little lonely. But that happens.

He tries to get the Halloween spirit, but all that happens when he looks at the pictures is that he thinks of last year again. Of concrete walls and a cold, a payphone in the dark and a voice worrying sharp.

Will this ever stop? He asks himself. He cut it out, he doesn't want to feel lonely or sad anymore.

Break ups suck. Or whatever that was between them. Twice now.

He hears a snoring from his mattress. Good girl Cameron, standing watch and still here the next night.

Maybe she's in bad mood too. Sometimes he feels bad because she never talks about feelings or personal reasons. He knows nothing. Not where she came from. Nothing about her parents or the reason she was a 14 year old homeless girl in the first place. It is no nice story, that much is sure. But she's still the closest thing he has, despite the boundaries. It's just how it works. He complains and moans and sobs and she waits and snarls and pushes him occasionally.

And it's fine.

Really.

 _Hey Mom_

 _U alright?_

 _Haven't heard from you since I was in that train station._

He spams when he sees the green light next to her name pop up.

There's no answer.

Not nice, he thinks but doesn't wait any longer. Instead he just pushes the button and waits for her to pick up the video. His fingers drum over the keys the laptop.

Takes an eternity for her to pick up. Her head appears in the frame, bold shaved and no-nonsense. He smiles.

"Good to see your face." Thomas says, leaning forward in the small cone of light, illuminating his hands , shining from the screen. He means it. With all the security stations he just remembers the night he picked her up with the van all too clear. "You got my message?"

"I did." She leans back on the chair. It's just as dim and dark, with a single lamp in the background casting shadows over her body. "As much as I appreciate your work, don't test your luck, Thomas."

He smiles because despite the tense tone he feels she cares. "Nah, not going back there. Don't worry, Diana. I almost peed myself when that guy yelled at me to put the phone away."

He realizes all of this is all they ever talk about. This mess.

"You in for some trick or treat?" He decides to ask.

"You love that day more than anything, don't you?"

"Got that right. " he chuckles low. "Would trade my sisters right in to make it a week long."

He gives her his best cheerful grin. In truth it's not as amazing as he wants it to be. He's cold under his blanket and snuggles in closer. He looks back at Farley's face. In the back room a door opens, faint yellow light showing a towel-clad Shade.

"Dude, put on a shirt!" Thomas leans forward and watches Shades form retreat along the corner of the camera. "Did I interrupt weird ass shower sex or something?"

Not like he would know a lot about it. But somehow he imagined showers as a rather difficult place to get it on. It small and slippery and how are you supposed to really keep warm under that small stream of water? That needs management, doesn't it? Maybe it takes a certain type of shower. Or just two people. Which could be the main problem.

His interest in physical contact is reduced to cuddling friends since THAT NIGHT, as he calls it.

He remembers very well. His mouth gliding over skin, tasting and searching. Hands gripping his hair and teeth sinking into his shoulder, a nose in the hollow of a neck where a head used to fit perfectly. Throbbing pain and a warm feeling in his stomach, melting him, making him forget this will not last.

No thanks, not interested. Showers are good to be alone. At least one can stand there for hours and let all the weird creative brain farts get by. Beds are good alone too. Everything is better alone. Yes. That's how it's supposed to be.

Enough of this.

He tilts his head and stares at the screen as if he can just peak around the corner. Of course, with all respects for technology, a fruitless effort. "Where have you been at, Barrow?"

"I crawled through a tunnel, "he hears his voice say.

"That's a very strange way of describing-" Thomas jokes.

"He means a tunnel." Farley cuts him off.

Thomas snorts. "You guys are trying to find ways into the city without a permission, right?"

"No trying." She answers, confident.

"I don't know how many times I have to ask you to be careful." He decides to be honest."I mean I get it. Always was your thing. And now it makes sense. Still."

"No more bad jokes?" Shade's voice asks off-screen. "Not even a fart sound. Something's wrong."

Farley looks away and shares a glance with him, and Thomas is reminded people do that. They get good at communicating with each other when they spend time. Garnering respect for each other. Catching patterns. Trusting. Well whoopdy do. Everyone but him and the silver prince. They just burned all bridges and it keeps getting worse. He has no delusion about it. Good thing he'll never have to attempt to make that work. Sure he called. He will call again. He will just never ever try and pick up the broken pieces of this mess again.

Work's supposed to go into a relationship from two sides. So he's not going to waste time and energy anymore.

At least that's the plan.

But plans never go too far with Thomas. The only thing stopping him from worrying some nights is his anger and hurt. And the fact he's just trash to that guy. His sudden interest has to go some weird way. Maybe he's really just planning something. He doesn't dare to even consider the other possibility.

"Sorry, shouldn't be serious. I know. "Thomas just rolls his eyes. "Pretend I made another stupid joke about your tunnel. Something something disturbing sex thing."

"Put some effort in it, Thomas." Shade demands, stretching into the frame for a moment.

"Ehh," he makes hastily. "How about slithering- Nah, I can't. I work terrible under pressure, dude."

Farley watches them as she does sometimes when she seems to wonder why she is the only rational and serious person in the room.

"Anyway," Thomas gets back to the point. "I just wanted to make sure you are ok. I miss you, y'know. Seems like it was easier sometimes. You patching me up, feeding me. Watching movies together. Was good. Was simple."

"Thomas it was never easy," Farley says, crossing her arms. "You just chose to look away."

To that truth, he has no answer.

In the morning he burns through the eggs his sister left in the fridge.

Cameron watches in disgust as the wobbly mess piles on his plate. He throws a lot of salt on it and stuffs it inside with a few quick bites.

"And you say I am disgusting sometimes." She huffs. "That was not cooked."

"Excuse me, " he points the fork at her. "I am a creative soul. I have my own way of cooking."

"You'd eat a sock if it had salt on it."

"Would that sock be cooked or just served cold as it is?" He wonders.

She makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat.

* * *

"Please tell me you are in." He almost begs the next time he sits on Mare Barrows porch. Took a good hour longer with all the stations and barriers. And seriously, has there always been so much cameras? He remembers how he watched out on some corners when he was still homeless. He always hated them. Now it's turned into full blown disgust. He wants to do the Cameron and make rude gestures whenever he passes one. Instead he turns his head down and walks a little bit faster. "C'mon Lightning."

Sometimes they fall right back at that level of acquaintance where you bristle to share any kind of personal information about anything.

She ponders.

"What's stopping you?" He asks, deciding to cross that border again.

She shrugs.

"It's Cal's birthday."

"Yeah I know. " And he does. Remembers well. " Even better. Got to blow off steam. I mean if you're doing that couple thing with cuddly staying at home," he kicks a loose pebble, boots crunching. "That's ok. At least tell Warren. I don't wanna go alone."

"Thomas," She watches him very closely. "Just ask him."

"Nah," Thomas scratches his chin before looking away. "Don't think I will. That's like.. sending wrong signals."

She lets go of a breath, air a white cloud in the cold. "And flirting doesn't?"

He grimaces. He's blatantly obvious sometimes, he knows. But hey, that's what good ol' Thomas does, right? Flirting and walking away. That's safe. That's fun and games.

"He's a good sport about it." He decides to say, voice only a tiny bit hurt. "But we both know he's into someone else, Barrow. And I am a dude. Which could make my advances a tad more useless. Sooo." He stretches his arms and shrugs. As if to say 'What's there to do?'

 _And what is there to do indeed?_

* * *

One single orange light is burning in the darkness, illuminating the door. It's a metal door, barged open with heavy scratches everywhere.

The air is cold, and when Thomas breathes in, he smells the city.

A high-voltage ozone spark. A whiff of garbage.

A sulfury brim sways over from the river, salty and dirty, and he almost feels the water.

Thomas' feet dangle over the concrete down. He's chosen the highest point, farthest away from the door. Now he just sits and waits, watching the blinking lights and the streets below.

A city should be alive. But now it's so empty and cold it feels like put in a coma.

Not that there's no parties or meetings anymore. People still need to burn up their energy. It's just exclusive, shall we call it?

The broad mass worries about their days and doesn't want to go out at night. But youth makes people reckless. It makes you want to enjoy life to the finest. And let's be honest, it's the youth making the most trouble.

His sister doesn't approve he moves around after dark in general. Doesn't say anything. But still. He sneaks out if he has to. Not like the gang is always safe and sound at night. They all sneak around all the time. They're better at this than he is. Moving up and around all alone is kind of scary. But who could he ask to join in on this meet up?

He stares down and lets his feet dangle.

When the door opens very slow and careful he doesn't get down. He waits and watches instead, turning around lazy.

Maven looks thin and tired, grey in the light. They could go in for partner look again, both all in black.

There's a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

Funny how some things always stay the same no matter how much a person changes.

"Well, well," Thomas makes from his spot above him, getting on his feet . He sits perched up , in his skinny frame dressed in black, like an enormous crow. "Look who decided to show up."

It doesn't have the effect he wished for. All he gets is an seemingly unnerved look. Not what he planned for. That boy should appreciate some dramatic effect the most, he knows how it's done.

"You arrived early just for that," Maven says. His voice is as chilly as the wind. "Didn't you?"

"What can I say. Was bored." He gets up and looks down. Jumping? How did that end the last time, when he planted face down and kissed the ground? It's not very graceful and a bit degrading when he slumps over the edge and slides down like a too fat cat loosing footing and sliding along the concrete. Very slow. It makes a grinding sound when his loose sole scratches along the wall.

"That sounds very much like you." Maven comments and Thomas flinches a little. He cleans his dirty palms on his jeans.

"It was either that or punching you in the face as soon as you walk in." He shrugs.

As if this wasn't a big deal. As if this was nothing special. Nothing he can regret any moment. And already does.

"Then I suppose I should appreciate your sense for dramatic entrances."

Thomas chuckles, short and without any humor. _Look who's talking._

"I was kinda surprised you agreed to meet."

"I expect no trap," Maven says and doesn't even look him in the face. He just stares down the roof as if he's asking himself how deep it goes down, hands in his pockets. "You lack the ability to trick people. And even if someone set you on it, you wouldn't go through with it."

Yes, because I am stupid and you are smart, like always. It tastes bitter to think it, to fall in very old patterns filled with self doubt and lack of confidence.

" Because I'm too soft, him?"

"Because you lie badly. You don't look people in the face or laugh very loud."

"I guess," Thomas shrugs again. "I am not you."

The glare pierces right into Thomas.

"If you asked me to meet so you can insult me in person, I will take my leave."

Acting like he's the wronged party.

Thomas can't really believe it.

He knows everyone else would act on it. Lightning would probably spit in his face or worse. And Cameron would tell him to end the problem with a simple shove. It would look like an accident. He almost hears her say it. It amuses him and distracts the anger.

"That's just bonus," he promises. "I wanna talk. And I need to see your face when I do it."

You lie on the phone, I may not see it, Thomas thinks.

For a moment they both breathe in and out, through the city smog and the wind howling in the corners.

In a tiny fraction, only for a second, Thomas could pretend this was just one of their secret dates, and he'd lean over, put an arm around Maven's shoulder and enjoy their time together. But there's a lot more now. A lot more weight. A lot more anger. And nothing will ever be as it was.

"Talk, then." Maven says, waiting, lying in alarm like an animal perched behind a bush. Ready to jump.

"You were right about stuff getting worse. You tipped off Farley. So I guess, I just wanna know.." he sighs. "Why?"

"What do you want to hear, Thomas? That I have some foul intention?" There's the dry expression again. The game is on again between them.

Evil genius spouting out their plan right before the hero? No no. Thomas is no hero. Maven does have the potential edge for the evil mastermind, granted. But that's not what he wants.

"Dunno. Be honest. If you really mean good. Show it."

"So you want me to do what exactly, apologize?" There's the hunched shoulders. Thinking about it makes him uncomfortable. Probably not for the same reasons as Thomas.

It's making him a little bit angry. "Sure. Why not. Easy. Start with something like _Thomas, I am sorry I threw you under a bus , I am sorry I told shit about you. I am a freaking idiot._ "

Of course, there's not an apology as answer but the coldest smile Thomas has ever seen. "And if I am done I beg you to take me back?"

"Taking you back? That's implying I had you, pretty boy. We know I didn't." This was a mistake. He knew it. „I knew you did not want to make it up. That isn't your style."

He can't stand the way Maven looks back with his eyes all high and mighty. And he doesn't care if it's just defense or genuine arrogance. It's making him irrationally angry and hurt.„And what is my style, Thomas?"

„You wanna go there again?" Thomas hands curl into fists.

„I start to think calling you was a mistake."

„No," Thomas whispers. „Calling would be alright. If you hadn't fucked up everything else. Calling would be cool if you hadn't told lies about everything. Calling me would be super if you had just accepted help and started making things better. But do you? Or do you just feel lonely and have a weak moment?"

This time the silence is more stunned than cold, judging by the breathing There's some more in the hollow bruised chest that wants out.„Don't call me. Seriously. I won't answer anymore. If this is some sort of game for you...This makes me miserable. And I don't wanna be miserable. I am a shitty person. But even good ol' I deserves better."

He's expecting some icy snap or rejection, some insult that puts the finger right in the wound and twists. Not the sigh that sounds a million years old.

„And didn't I tell you that everytime we were together?"

Thomas bites his lips, staring into the distance to stop the water in his eyes. „I wish you would change shit. I miss you. The old you."

„ There's no old me, Thomas. „

„Figure it out. Honestly, I repeat myself. Get your shit together. Figure it out. And do something."

„You say you don't want to be my conscience, Thomas." The ghost of a voice whispers. „But maybe you're really all I have."

You don't have me, Thomas wants to say but doesn't. Can't bring himself to.

„Maybe I am." He says instead.

It's strange. It feels like some sort of thing, Thomas can't really say. Like Maven just told him the most important thing. Couples say I love you, I love you too, all the time when they say goodbye. This feels the same.

It rolls over his pounding head and it doesn't do any good.


	5. A suitable excuse

**_[An]WOW so much love. Thank you! Next and a bit longer: the Halloween chapter. And now have fun with the boys having the talk._**

* * *

"It's happening." Shade says when he sees Thomas shuffle uncomfortable, throwing his bag on the ground." I feel like this day never would come. But it has."

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Take a picture. Lasts longer."

"Got that right, asshat." Cameron's crooked finger rests on his phone and it clicks. How did she even get it? Traitor. "You look so wrong it's perfect."

"Please send it to Diana. She has waited for this a long time."

"Done." She confirms, lounging on the chair , legs stretched out. She's almost peaceful as long as she can mock Thomas like a lion and a piece of meat.

Payback for the cat ears. And the witch hat. "And to everyone else in the contacts."

"It's just a tie." Thomas feels desperate enough to say the obvious, pointing down on himself. He's sweaty and uncomfortable after hours stuck without his hoodie. The collar scratches his neck. He misses the perfect fitting run down feeling his feet could experience in his boots. But they have died and he's stuck with his sisters choice of new shoes now. My money, she stated bossy. My choice. Or it's barefoot. " Some boring clothes. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because I can." Cameron says, snapping another picture.

"I just did an adult thing, job and all." He tries again, tugging at the fabric of his rolled up sleeve. "Can I go change now?" he points at the bag with the sad face drawn on at his feet.

"No."

"Weird day, dude." He decides to ignore her, facing Shade and wiggling out of the tie. "There was a girl at the bus stop staring the whole time. Thought I had something on my face. She sat down next to me and giggled when I asked her about it. A girl giggling at me. New one. "

"You clean up good, Thomas." Shade tries to be friendly.

Thomas takes it with a grain of salt, as he always does. Can't help the insecurity when you've been mocked and looked down your whole life. Last year he'd have made a big show ,faking the over exaggerated confidence he mustered every time he had when he walked in that circle if chairs and smiled at all the fake faces. His pretence consists on faking being alright right now, to let no one know he's not done moping and would be a terrible friend if he gave in to it. Every one is sick and tired of his drama by now. And he still wants to hit himself for not stopping.

"Thanks. Maybe the haircut was due. "

In an epic and desperate fight for the right for his remaining pride he grips his phone. And looses a fight to a fifteen year old girl that looks a little pleased as she wins the tug of war. He always looses to her. And to Lightning. One more thing they have in common.

"I start next week. So party plans are still up." He says, "At least I got some good news for my father when he tells me I am lazy and stupid."

He earns a pat on the shoulder. "You got back on track."

"And over that asshole." Cameron adds with spite.

Thomas laughs too loud. His eyes lock on a point on the ceiling. "Pff. Yeah. Totally over him. Never gonna think about him again."

At long last he feels a little like himself again with the too big shirt and a pair of holes in his clothes.

The streets were a mess. There was tension so thick in the air he could have cut it with a knife.

Organized ramblings and crowds, queues on train stations like a death row in a slaughter house.

Crowds always made him itch. Since that tower incident and the fires he hates them even more. They leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Too many bodies in too little space seldom mean something good.

Doors making a siring , beeping sound as he stepped through the glass into the building.

His sister never really tells much about her work. She's smart and she works in an office. That was always all he knew.

Money is money. And she is right, he thinks. Can't let her pay it all.

He can't disappoint her too.

If Cole wants payback, she does it well and carries it out without mercy.

He stares at the long list of send pictures. When he scrolls down further he realizes something in horror. She really has sent the images to everyone. His mother has send the most enthusiastic and sweetest message with a weird combination of emoticons. Someone ought to tell her an eggplant is not what she thinks it is.

But that's not the worst. The worst is the untitled number at the end of the list. A number that consists of deleted messages. Now there's that blighted image of him, hand on his hip, a good natured sigh on his face. It's not as bad of the mugshot of his face, he's definitely better dressed and not as much rat as he used to. But it looks so wrong. And it's definitely sending a wrong signal.

Well there's no answer. Maybe he hasn't even seen it.

No. No he has. Thomas takes a deep breath.

Yes, totally over it. Haha.

* * *

To his outmost anger the train is an hour late. And someone vomited over four seats and the ground. It's disgusting and if he wasn't so tired from being on his feet the whole day without eating he would make bad jokes about it.

The big graffiti of the face he has created in an attempt to overcome nightmares is gone. They painted over it clumsily.

The hallway smells bad. Like earth. And as if an animal has crawled in to die.

He's going through his bag, eyes barely watching the steps when he hears a very familiar voice and freezes.

"Hello, Thomas. I expected you sooner."

His answer is very eloquent and intellectual. It's the unquestionable essence of his mind.

"What the hell?"

He stares at Maven in a tired daze of confusion. Boy, he thought he'd looked bad before. But it was dark back then. In the light he looks evem worse. He's like a walking corpse today. Pale and thin and not very healthy.

"Always a pleasure to see you."

"What," he tries again, shaking off the stupor. "are you doing here?"

"You said you wouldn't answer my calls." As if that is any explanation at all. As if that's what normal people do?

"Are you out of your mind?" Thomas asks, gripping his keys hard. "No wait, don't answer. What if my sister is home?"

He earns a look like he just asked if the sky is blue. "I waited until she left before I gained access to the house."

Oh, great. Thomas thinks. That's so considerate and not creepy at all. "Cool. I guess you want something."

"I'd rather discuss that inside."

Thomas is very, very tempted to let him stand in the hallway and shut the door with force in his face.

"Five minutes, tops." He decides and steps towards the door, pushing past Maven without sparing a glance. He's still to close. At least no one tries to touch the other, for whatever reason.

"That should suffice." Maven agrees and Thomas doesn't like his feigned confidence at all.

The key makes a rattling sound before the door screeches open. It's a little unkempt and dusty, because despite all his free time he hasn't attempted to clean up.

No dirty dishes or something really bad. Just showing people living have little free time. Or too much.

He kicks of his new shoes with force, leaving them careless next to the door.

And they are back at the kitchen table. It's like that's their war table, holding negotiations over territories and moves.

Doesn't sit so well to know how it ended the last time.

"I have a proposition to make." Maven opens the negotiations.

"Listening." Thomas retorts, rubbing his eyes.

"My warning was genuine. With all the pressure and the jurisdictional issues,I am very sure you and your friends could use viable information."

 _Tskk_ is the sound coming from Thomas mouth.

Maven tilts his head.

"Lost interest." He gets up from the chair. " Time is up."

"Wait."

Not a question. Just a demand.

Thomas makes a grimace.

"I also came to apologize properly. Because you were right. You deserve that."

Thomas sits down again, slowly. "Go on."

There's some bristling, like he fights with the words in throat and is close to suffocating on them. Despite all good graces Thomas is a little satisfied watching him squirm on the seat.

Come on, he thinks. Swallow the pride.

"I was treating you poorly." Maven says. "And you did not deserve that."

"You were a massive dick." Thomas helps out gladly. " And a filthy liar."

"One could say I was not very forthcoming." Maven admits only to backpedal in his best manner, adding low :" You weren't exactly a saint, though, Thomas. You provoked me to react."

"Eh, this apology stinks." Thomas crosses his arms.

"I was not done yet." For a moment, Maven looks almost angry, and Thomas raises his eyebrows . „You're trying to be good to me, Thomas, and I ruined it."

„Yeah." Thomas agrees, looking away.

„I am sincerely asking you to give me another chance."

So, that's it. That's how it goes.

„ I love you."

For all he knows this is the wrong thing all over again.

The words could be lies. Or maybe they are true bit in another sense. Their realities clash. They aren't the same.

The words aren't enough to make up everything that has damaged and hurt , broken and enkindled.

Love isn't the cure for everything bad in the world. As much as Thomas wishes it was different, it is not.

„No." He huffs. „No you don't get to say that now. Not after all of this."

„I love you, Thomas." He repeats, without any mercy. The words hit him like a hammer in the face. There is nothing old Thomas would have liked to hear more. Now, he's not so sure. " I realize you may not believe that. But if you were willing to take me back, I could-"

The seams are wearing thin. There's nothing left anymore. And still everything is still there.

Thomas black and blue heart is blooming, flowers watered with pain and tears, never seen any light.

"If this is just some try to manipulate me, it's very low." He whispers.

He leans on the table and hides his face in his hands, breathing deep.

"You are welcome to find out everything about my intentions."

For a while he doesn't move, just breathing into his hands. Then he looks up again in brilliant blue eyes, looking out of a thin and very tired face. "I got conditions. And I swear, if you break one, I will let my friends in on it, and you know what they feel for you."

Maven puts his hands on the table. "Name them." He offers.

Please don't touch me, Thomas thinks, flinching a little away. Another part of him can't wait and hopes for exactly that.

He's not sure he got all the right words he needs. He tries to sort them out in his head , tasting them on his tongue before he starts.

"First off. You get help. Something isn't alright, and if you don't get into that, nothing will ever change." Best advice from someone with such a low self esteem and confidence he can't look at himself in the mirror. But it's true. "I know you hate doctors and therapists and whatever. I freaking get the creeps in hospitals, I understand. But give it a shot. If you want it better. If you love me." It feels like blackmailing. But what is he supposed to say?

"The second." Maven just says, not willing to disagree or admit anything yet. Thomas can't blame him. He didn't think he'd negotiate about their relationship tonight.

The second hurts. It's his own fault , partially, he'll admit. "We talk. Like, we talk the real shit. Inside out. Everything. We were never good at it. If this is supposed to work, we need to do something about it."

There's a very hesitant nod.

"We don't have to tell people anything yet. We work on this." Thomas offers to soften the blows. "You can stay here, if you want to. And I do want to spend time with you. Normal stuff, you know. But I ain't going to do it like before. Don't expect anything. Maybe I'll hug you. But that's about it."

He's not sure this is going well. But at least they are still sitting here. And not yelling or hissing. Probably progress.

"And one thing on the top of the list." He ends. " I know apologizing is hard for you. But you'll have to do it eventually. If not to Barrow and Farley at least talk to your brother. He's got a birthday coming. Would be a good chance."


	6. Odds

**[AN] This grew so big I felt the need to split it, so again no halloweenspirit but more talks.**

* * *

The ring on his door is early. An hour early. Thomas slouches to the door, still hugging his blanket. He wears it with as much pride as a cape, trailing behind him over the cold floor.

 _That's right. This is MY kingdom. It's tiny and cold, and the stairwell smells of dead cat. But it's my home. I am the king._

Last night was long. Really long. And really tiring. But not necessarily in a bad way. There's a rulebook formed to hold and maintain anything stable between them. There's code words and prohibitions. It's a little like a secret mission. He thinks of the way he joked with Warren and how he thought it's good it doesn't mean anything. Oh, the simple days are long gone. But structure means at least less chaos.

Structure is good for his laziness. And rules are meant to help. Rules are the armour that protects him from falling in too deep.

No all he has to live through is getting both of the brothers out of this alive. And isn't that a lovely task?

Thomas should be the last person to play mediator. Considering how he stands to his family he should be the last person to give advice. But here he is.

"Hey," is all he says when he opens the door. He was all high flying colours for Halloween. Now he's not in the mood at all. It doesn't feel good to have it taken from him again.

It's a little like last time. He doesn't get to enjoy it, it seems.

 _You know what they say, no rest for the wicked and their very attached other half._

They don't try to get too close to each other , no casual touching. No sudden kisses or attempts. He's not sure his heart can take that right now.

"You look tired." Thomas says. "Got coffee. Want some?"

"Gladly." Maven accepts with a certain distant politeness that makes Thomas feel faint amusement.

He'd have told everyone wearing red , and crimson at that, was a bold choice. For someone uncomfortable out of his black hoodies and dark clothes it's definitely colourful. In contrast to all the times Thomas has seen Maven in blue or strictly black it's weird and out of place. But suits him.

After yesterday's meeting it's clear he regrets saying the magical words. Long list of regrets and things that can't be taken back.

Blanket cape and very silent Maven in tow he steps onto the counter. His sister left a bowl with sweets and while he grips two mismatched cups from the shelf he stuffs some in his face. Chewing distracts him.

"You can just sit." He says, chewing mouth full.

" I don't feel like it."

Thomas shrugs it off.

He still remembers how Maven drinks coffee. Weird. But expected. His brain has the quantity of an elephant when it comes to useless sulking in memories. Thomas is still not too keen on coffee. He doesn't know why people like the bitter taste or the smell. But right now it's probably needed. It will be a long, long complicated day.

"You are still more into sugar than anything." He observes and watches Thomas lick the spoon and violate the coffee with too much milk.

"The only thing I ever was addicted to." He can't stop himself from poking. There's a twitching, nervous energy around them. And that doesn't help. "Sorry."

"I suppose I might deserve that." Maven offers to his surprise.

Well isn't that something. Thomas can almost believe he means it.

"Keep that attitude. " he hands over the other cup and their fingers brush. There's an electric spark send flying. Thomas retreats fast. "Maybe it will go well."

Maven's blue eyes don't look at him. His dark hair falls into his brow as he stares into the cup. Like it can foresee the future.

"We agreed, to be honest, Thomas."

"Yeah."

What are the odds even? Does he really expect Maven to apologize?

They lean on the counter, staring at nothing particular.

The bright small kitchen used to be his favourite spot in the flat, because of the smell, of the mismatched harmony. Because of the late night snacks and the way his friends sit on the chairs.

Now it has turned into a morgue. Buried hopes and emotional corpses. And the zombie relationship shuffling through, moaning loud in hunger.

"Family is weird." Thomas decides to say. "I mean, you don't chose to have them. But they'll always be around."

"Share another wisdom or platitude." Maven says and it stings. Thomas isn't really offended. They are on edge. And that topic always was touchy.

"Did I ever tell you about my mother?" Thomas tries again, taking a shot.

"We avoided personal matters."

Especially mothers. No need to spell it out.

"She spoiled me. All the time. She still does. Her food is top notch tho. My sister has that from her. She likes books and sometimes , when I was small, she bought us stuff we normally couldn't afford." He holds the cup between his hands to ground himself. He remembers her full plate and how she said she wasn't hungry and gave the food to them. As a child he believed that. Or how she scratched all the money together and bought ice cream. She never had one herself. "She worked her ass off. Even when she had my little sister. She stopped working because she couldn't move, her belly was so big. Had to put on her shoes."

He smiles a little, thinking of his younger version, not really sure what to make of a baby. Like some kind of weird useless pet. That suddenly made his mother turn away and stop spoiling him for a while. But only until he could see that little squishy thing wasn't half bad and turned into a very adorable and dangerous toddler.

He should really call more often.

He's a terrible son and brother.

"And then I freaking ran because I was an edgy teenage boy that wanted to forget the world. And she probably thought she did something wrong." He huffs.

When he looks up, returning from the past, he finds Maven staring, almost intrigued. Like Thomas just pulled out a talk about astrophysics out of nowhere.

"I guess, what I wanna say, when you look back. You see good things you maybe couldn't appreciate. So please. Look at the good stuff. And maybe appreciate you had a brother." He breaks the casual touching rule and gives Maven a pat on the shoulder, like the one's he gets from Shade. " And own the mistakes."

"Thomas," Maven asks. "When did you get so proficient on making speeches? It is very surprising."

"Maybe the words need out after all this time." He shrugs. "Honesty and all. Also, I got plans and places to be later. This is my favourite day of the year. You won't ruin it by driving this against the wall."

After another ten minutes of standing still, Maven starts to shuffle and twitch before falls into nervous pacing like a caged animal and Thomas is sure he'll just insult him and leave. Because he didn't really mean to apologize or talk things out.

"Stop." Thomas is surprised how easily he can be strict. "You are making me hella nervous with this."

They're not in the mood for another inspiring discussion and Thomas pulls out a pencil and starts smearing senseless sketches over paper. It's like it used to be, somehow, when he blends the rest out. Just the scratching sound and his hand occasionally smearing over the lines messy and raw. He's trying hard to keep it clean, but he's not sure how he ever held the nervous itch in the back of his neck in tow with Maven watching him way too close.

"You've got something on your nose." Maven says into the silence of the ticking clock and brimming fridge.

Thomas rubs his hand over his nose. "Better?"

"Worse."

"Remember that one time you bought me pastel colors?" Thomas smiles a little.

"It was a massacre."

"Truth?" Thomas asks. Another code word, another rule.

If one calls truth the other has to answer the same. Fair trade.

"I really just wanted to smear that colours around. Had a little mean streak for you freaking out about dirty stuff."

"Truth. I found it very endearing you were looking like a rainbow."

Thomas huffs when he reaches out, too perplexed to actually turn away. He blinks through Maven's attempt to clean up the spot.

"I can just wash my face, y'know." Thomas whispers, trying to lean away from the touch that turns into something else slowly when Maven's fingers wander away from his nose and cling to his cheek. It burns his skin.

"You should probably do just that."

Maven's thumb brushes over his cheek in the smallest circle, shaking pale hands desperately trying, so gentle Thomas is sure he's dreaming it all.

"Then please," Thomas asks. "Let go."

The hand disappears. He's glad for it.

For a while they just stare at each other. Despite the closeness there's a wall between them, build of too many things still not unravelled.

Thomas smiles defeated. Maven wrinkles his nose.

As if they both just accept the simple truths.

They are lonely.

At least one of them is still in love with the other.

And it **hurts**.

He's hugging his blanket but decides to leave it behind safe and sound when he opens the door a second time. Probably weirded Cal out that Thomas asked him to come over. They're not exactly friends. Just part of the same broken hearts club.

Didn't make things better he asked him to keep it to himself after blaring a birthday wish into the speaker.

Hey, Thomas thinks, seeing the circles under his watchful brown eyes. At least we all look like shit. Though no one can top that corpse look Maven pulls off.

"Thanks for stopping by." Thomas tries to smile friendly. "Not sure if we'll ever talk again after today. But still. Thanks."

"What's this about, Thomas?" he asks as he steps in.

Thomas can't look him in the eyes and focuses on a tiny fading scar on his hand. "Please don't get mad. Promise."

"Is this about Maven?" Cal names the child. Course he would see through it.

"Ehh'" Thomas makes, face crunched in desperation, feeling his lifespan shorten with every breath. "Kinda? Just don't get mad."

He leads the way into the kitchen and watches the catastrophe unfold.

There's something ice cold and hard in Maven's glare. He sits very still and stiff, hands clasping together so tightly his knuckles are white.

Cal doesn't really look any better. He's not exactly friendly. And probably seriously confused and mad. Because Thomas didn't try to tell him this would happen today.

Throwing nice people into bad emotional stances. Hurray.

Thomas feels like he's in the middle of a fire storm and flames are closing in fast.

This is going bad.

Murder glares. Yes. Appropriate name.

If something happens to Cal, he realizes in horror, or even if she hears of his renewed contact, yet alone some sort of relationship with Maven, Lightning is going to kill him.

And Cameron will cheer. Not because she's particularly fond of Cal or close to Lightning. But because she promised to kick his ass if he ever was stupid enough again to walk the same way as Maven.

And Farley won't stop them. Or maybe she will, but not very enthusiastic.

What have I done? He asks himself. Not for the first time. And definitely not the last.

 _Here lies Thomas_

He sees his tombstone.

 _He put his big nose in matters he shouldn't have. At least he died on his favorite holiday._

No. Too long to be engraved.

 _Thomas_

 _He liked cake and dogs._

 _Then he died._

Better, Thomas decides and braces himself with every ounce of willpower he can muster. Sometimes having the master power of taking blows is useful. It gives one endurance where other people wouldn't even try.

"What? Don't I get a hug?" Maven mocks ice cold. "It has been so long."

Boy, not helping the case, Thomas thinks and wants to hit him with the back of his hands like his sister and Cameron do when he's particularly idiotic.

"No, no." Thomas body steps between, palms outstretched in surrender. "He's here to apologize."

"Is he?" Cal asks, and Thomas is reminded he's a skinny nothing easily broken into two if Cal really wanted to. Bless at least one of them has a tiny bit inside him to behave. Cause it's certainly not the other brother on the table.

Maven looks like they are insects crawling up the floor. That's not better than the open anger at all. Defense mechanism or just lousy paranoid messy mind, no excuse. "You can blame this on Thomas. He insisted."

"Thanks." As if he doesn't collect blame like trading cards or porcelain on a shelf. "And by the way," Thomas shakes his head. He'd be angry if he didn't expect something like this. His voice is very flat. " Get a grip, Mave. Swallow the pride pill and drop the act."

It has some effect, to a certain extent.

It feels pretty wrong to sit down on the counter because there's no other chair. Positive is he doesn't have to take a position in between. Or decide which side he wants to sit on.

He feels the hurt and anger. It's what inside of him too.

"I can leave. Rooms over there," Thomas offers in the indestructible silence and stone-eyed figures on his creaky old chairs. A war table indeed.

Now he can see the difference. In the way they sit, one straight and up and the other a little hunched over, one smothering cold and the other very much as much angry, but less invulnerable. He remembers how he thought the warmth seeping out of Cal's pores was almost hurting Maven , because he couldn't act good on care and kindness.

But boy, he admires that self-control and confidence. Thomas would have either hit Maven in the head with a chair or run away to cry.

"Maybe you should." Maven says with looking as much as him.

"Thomas should stay," Cal disagrees firm, leaning back. "I am sure he has to say a word or two. Especially when it is about his friends."

"You don't really think Thomas is your friend. You don't even know him." The words slide down Thomas spine with the worst tinge of something possessive.

"Ehhh." Thomas makes very clever on the counter, not sure what to do.

"He's friends with Mare. And considering you seem to be back together-"

"We're not really together yet. Not until this is over." Thomas says subdued. No one bothers to listen.

"I am sure he has a right to know about those messages you sent her."

What Maven was prepared for, he doesn't seem to have a good answer to that. Alone Lightning's name makes him grip his hands harder and draw his shoulders up.

"You know about that." Almost like he's a little impressed.

Thomas wonders what's behind that tired sigh. Lovebirds seem to have a bone to pick too. "She didn't tell me. But I couldn't stop notice."

"What messages?" Thomas asks. Maven avoids breathing in his direction. "What messages did you sent to her?"

"I just asked her how she was." He shrugs it off with nonchalance. "Small pleasantries."

Cal hasn't to answer, and judging by the look on his face Thomas wishes he'd hit Maven with the chair.

"Yeah no." Thomas snorts. "Oh what a fun talk we will have about this."

The staring continues for a while. It seems Cal is looking for something he's not sure to find. Like Thomas burrowing into his drawer for one sock. But.. indefinitely worse, of course.

"You were my brother."

It's probably the way he says it that it sounds like the worst insult and curse ever spoken.

"Once upon a time," Maven shakes his head. "But what did that ever truly mean to you? I was good enough to live in your shadow. It made people always realize even more how perfect you were."

"You know, those words sound like someone else told you to repeat them a long time ago. And if you do believe I never cared, you're really not the boy I want to remember."

 _What an enormous amount of stings, fresh wounds, and old scars. It all opens at once and it's not pretty._

Thomas wants to run from it. This isn't belonging to him anymore. He's not really sure he should be involved.

He considers sneaking to the bathroom and waiting until this is over. But who knows how it'll end.

Please just apologize, Thomas tries to telepathically send. Get it over. Come on.

"Surprise, Cal. Happy birthday," Maven says. The worst thing is he starts to smile and if someone would have skinned Thomas alive it would not have been more effective cruel and disturbing.

That's the one last thing it needs to make it snap, one jump up and a hand curled into a fist.

Thomas jumps in between, gripping the wood of the table, deciding to take the risk.

"Dude," Thomas says, back shielding Maven, trying to draw the attention away. "Don't. I love Lightning, I've known her for a while and always found her cool, really. And I get you are hurt. This is worse for you than anyone. But that's not the way. And you'll only regret it."

He's sure the fist will just hit his face. Squeezing his eyes tightly together he braces himself to take another hit for Maven, though he doesn't deserve it. The hit never follows.

"Show some respect for Thomas, at least," Cal says, teeth gritted at his brother. "He's been sticking around the whole time."

"Rest assured he has my deepest gratitude."

When the door closes, Thomas takes a deep breath. "That was... something. You didn't kill each other. Worth something."

"I would have told you about the messages." Maven says.

Thomas smiles mirthlessly. "I thought we were honest with each other now, Mave."


	7. I forgot

"You could just tag along." Thomas offers from his spot hunched over the sink.

He glances over to the figure in the door, watching closely and flinches when he pokes himself too close to his eye.

"We both know that would be a very bad idea."

He can only agree and wishes it wasn't so. If things could be easier. He tries to imagine just going out with Maven , somewhere nice. Tagging along with his friends. Not meeting in secret and hiding in his apartment, barely able to hold a conversation that's not hurting. Closest to that he ever had was that awkward moment at the cinema when Barrow didn't know they had history. And that ended in a fight and some nasty words.

"I mean, it's probably not like anyone would recognise you if you put on a hood." He can't let it go, brushing the black colour over his nose. Trying to concentrate. It's hard. " Just gotta maneuver around Lightning. Or just talk it out."

"Thomas, don't." Maven avoids categorically.

"Alright, " Thomas mutters and tries not to roll his eyes. "And will we talk about that messages before I leave?"

"Do you want to have a nice evening?" comes the answer. He doesn't have time to answer before there's an attempt to distract him. "What are you trying to be?"

A skull, bones drawn in black all over, like black tar has closed around the rattling remains of a corpse. Or a fire has scorched them. He's rather proud of himself. Through the black spots of his eyes he stares at himself for the first time really alright, Maybe it's just because no one will ever really see past the lines along his face and the way they conceal most of the things he doesn't like

"Not yet clear? " Thomas jokes through the black lines around his eyes. "I'm our relationship in one picture."

* * *

"Booh!" Thomas makes when he sees Barrow arrive dressed every day and not on par with his outfit at all. The only thing different is the little lightning bolts drawn along her face in some paint. He secretly appreciates it but wouldn't tell her in her face. "Where is Warren? And your boyfriend?"  
When he looks around he doesn't see anyone he knows.  
"Where is _everyone_?" He asks, disappointed.  
"Farley is sick. So she's out. Shade too.""

"Farley is what?" he snorts. Diana Farley doesn't get sick. Illness flees in the face of her existence. Even when he was lying on her couch, comatose and coughing, she wasn't concerned a bit.

"Food poisoning or something like that." she explains."And Cal wasn't in the mood."

Thomas doesn't hold a grudge against him for it. He'd have a very wrong feeling too after how that talk with his brother went.  
Cameron arrives next. She is just looking as expected. Her clothes are sprinkled in fake blood. A lot of it.  
She looks as if she just slaughtered a cow. Though to his neverending surprise for her details, MOST of the sprinkled blood is silver. Got to show your colors, he supposes.  
The weirdest thing is she still looks pretty, or as pretty as one can be with a sour face like that.  
"At least you got in the spirit." he says and pats her shoulder."But don't let anyone call the cops because they think it's real."  
"Who says it isn't?" she asks with the faintest grim smile. He just rolls his eyes. "Also, you look ridiculous. But you're in partner look with Fish boy. So have fun."

"Partner look is the best!" he exclaims, stretching his arms, moving on. Venturing further into the belly of the beast, as one could say. It's big, abandoned clearly, and no other house has any sign of life. No lights and no sounds. With is probably the reason it was picked out in the first place.  
At least with all the faces and bodies, the mixed lights and shadows, it's easy to forget the problems for a while.  
The music isn't exactly what Thomas would have chosen. But then again, music isn't his strong suit and as long as he has any of the people he likes close, who cares?  
Crowds make him want to run. But this crowd has at least the sense to celebrate. And they do it well.  
And with all the masks and hoods no one bothers to give any of them a second look.

He's not really a big dancer. Graceful agility of a giraffe, remember? He needs to be at least partially drunk to even try. Body awareness and low self-esteem suck sometimes. So most of the time he just stands close by cracking jokes. The group kind of loosens sometimes, but they find each other again after a short while.  
All in all, the evening could be worse.  
He's not scared too much. He doesn't think about problems. He just enjoys what he can and takes the rest as it comes and goes.

"You know I heard you got messages." Thomas brings himself to say on his chair, leaning forward.

Lightning bristles very uncomfortable. Like she didn't want anyone to know.

"Cal said it. And I know you got in a fight about it with each other." He continues. "And I know you never talk about things that are hard for you. But I hope I can do anything."

"Yes, I got messages." She admits but doesn't go into detail.

"But it was not that bad, was it?" Thomas asks her. He can't shake it off. It is like something sticky, clinging to his skin. "He was just his weird self, wasn't he?"

He recognizes the way Barrow sighs very quiet and crosses her arms. There are knots tied inside her and despite the pressure, she doesn't want them untied, because who knows where that will lead? And weakness is the last thing she can accept right now.

"He talked about things he shouldn't have known. Like he was there. Like he was watching me the whole day."

Even though no one can hear it he whistles through his teeth. "Like, actual stalking you?"

Her lips are a thin line when she looks away. "Yes. He waited for me in the middle of the night once."

"No way." Thomas runs a hand through his hair to keep himself from smashing his fist into the table.

He should have probably let Cal punch him to a bloody pulp.

Everything is messed up. Beyond saving maybe.

"Not cool." He whispers. He wants to say a lot more. He doesn't dare. He isn't trusting himself to stop once he started. "I need something to drink. You in?"

The rest of the night is a blur. There's an attempt to have a good time. It doesn't work so well. Cameron finds him in the bathroom stalls, sitting on a toilet and just staring at the nothingness of smeared words and stained wall.

She just walks right in, kicking the door open. The protests she earns are ignored and fade fast with a few mean looks left and right.

"Why are you hiding in here? You wanted fun." She states, just staring down on his hunched over form.

"Hey Cookie." He whispers.

Cameron makes a low rumbling sound when she sees his face.

"Sorry for being mushy again. Just heard something and I..." He holds his head, anticipating the worst is yet to come. Because he can't tell her a thing. "I dunno what to do.I am so mad. But I can't stop thinking if me and Mave-"

"Thomas," Cameron rarely calls him by his name. If she does it's serious. " stop this shit. Stop being a fucking idiot for once."

"Seems I can't." He just shrugs it off. And it's true. He just can't.

* * *

At first he is angry. Very, very angry. He's just too tired to act on it. He's still also hurt. He doesn't even know why he cares anymore. He tries and tries. And what does he get for it? Kicked again.

The slight hangover in the morning doesn't help. His head is a pounding mess. He knows there is no way around talking about it, even if just for a moment, just to rip the cord and unplug it.

All the rules he set are worth very little when he still hears something like last night.

His anger has cooled a little. Or so he thinks until he opens the door for Maven, shoulders drenched in water.  
Now he grabs the wet fabric and whirls Maven around with as much force as his skinny form can muster. Maven's back hits the wall and makes a low THUMP, because he hits it hard.  
Thomas grabs the coat as hard as he can.  
He has lost control over his limbs for a moment. The door still stands open. It lets their echoes fly through the staircase.  
"What," Thomas breathes hard. "What is going on in your head?! Why couldn't you leave Barrow alone?"  
"You weren't angry about the messages the last time." Maven huffs unimpressed, blank face.  
"Yeah but now I know you freaking STALKED her." Thomas grits his teeth. "And that is not what normal people do. That is so not okay."  
"I'm not doing it anymore." Maven answers as if that's all that counts. It angers Thomas even more, until he sees the way Maven's body is bristling under his touch."I stopped when I came to talk."  
"That's not making it better." Thomas stares at his hands, violently tugging at Maven. That's not making things better too. With a step back he releases his grip and closes the door, hasty, hands resting on the wood, leaning forth.  
"Thomas, I can explain-" A hand reaches over and rests on the small of his back.  
"Don't. Don't touch me. Not now." Thomas flinches back, like the hands are burning him. "Seriously, why can't ANYTHING with you be normal? Is it too much to ask? I just want one, ONE," he yells. "nice evening. But even that is too much because everyone is spooked because you did something you shouldn't have!"

"I thought we agreed-" Maven stops, seemingly rephrasing whatever he wants to say to Thomas. "I am not doing anything you don't want me to anymore. I can't take back the past."

Thomas thought having to step in so Cal doesn't trash his brother was bad.

He feels like he needs to explain to a toddler why you don't put your finger in a power outlet. A lot of 'no,no!' s. A lot of glares. And patience. The bad thing is he doesn't have that patience right now.

"Why does this happen?" his voice sounds like he's about to cry, and he hates it. His fist smashes with lousy force against the door. "Seriously. I don't know why I hate myself so much."

Luckily enough the reason for his misery doesn't attempt to move in closer again. Frozen and stiff, hands clasped together. But without any vicious mock this time.

"So I suppose you will not help me anymore?"  
"What?" Thomas snorts angrily. "Of course I will. To make sure your ass stays and goes through with it."

* * *

"Hey," Thomas leans against the counter uncomfortable. The hospital creeps right into his nostrils and they flare, like a panicking horse. He detests hospitals, even more since the last time he was here. The give him the creeps. Something about the place never sits right. It's a place filled with death and terrible diseases and injuries. Sure it's also about healing and helping. He still is just here because he can't avoid it and doesn't have anyone to talk about it.  
"I am looking for Doctor Skonos? Blond hair, nice lady?"  
The woman looks at him critically for a moment.  
"It's kinda important for me? But not urgent or something, if she's about to go in elbow deep in a body."  
That was probably not the right way to say it. But she notices how uncomfortable he is and gives in. She's nice about it.  
"Doctor Skonos is on break. But if I had to guess, you could just wait here a moment?"  
"Sure, sure," he says, looking around, shuffling his feet.  
In the end, he decides down on the floor close to the counter as if that could protect him a little.  
He feels wrong in this place. It makes him itch to run.  
The initial meeting is more of Thomas stumbling to his feet and blocking the way.  
"Hey," he decides to go. "Sure you don't remember me, meet many faces every day, yeah? Was here with my friend before the towers blew up, she got glassed and curses like a sailor, grumpy face and all."  
To his surprise, there is a twinkle in her eye. "Miss Cole."  
So she _does_ remember. All the better. Makes things a lot easier.  
"Just...you were nice and I hadn't no one else that would probably know anything. So.." he sighs. "If you'd have a moment, would you talk with me? Private?"  
"Just a moment," she answers, and he smiles a little relieved.

She's a really good listener, quiet but observant. Not the sharp and piercing gaze some people give you. Just taking in the scene completely and attentive.  
He shuffles on his place on the bench, happy to feel fresh air, and even more relieved to not be forced to stay inside the hospital.  
People left and right were bathrobes or even have needles attached to them, smoking or just sitting. But they hold distance. Everyone is happy to be out for a second. No one wants to ruin that precious moment for the other.  
"I have a...I know someone," he starts. "He's super smart. And bad with feelings. But he's got problems. I think his reality isn't the same as mine or yours. He's not alright, and it's really bad for anyone involved. He needs people to help him sort the mess inside. Problem is," Thomas lets out the most desperate puff of air. "He is just very stubborn and paranoid, I think asking for help is probably the hardest ever. His mother would probably freak out if she knew. She's not a nice woman. But she's got too much reach."  
I am doing this wrong, a part of him thinks, still awfully mad and salty about the messages and the way he behaved.

 _I promised, so I have take care of that,_ the rational part of him tries to justify the effort.

 _Maybe I'll just make sure he's got somewhere to go and THEN I punch him in the face and leave him in the gutter._

"I mean I know that's not your special field." he tries to explain. "But you're like the only friendly doctor I ever met and I am sure you know a lot of stuff."  
And you don't judge me on it, he thinks. Even if just to protect me.  
"Your friend should not let you make decisions for him," she says. "But I am sure if he's as you described, seeking help is hard. So I see why you offered it."  
"I just need a pointer in someone you trust. Someone good. Who can help work with him."  
For a moment she thinks about it. "I think I know someone."  
He exhales loud into the cold air. A siren blares in the distance. "Thanks. Seriously. I know you don't even need to talk to me or anything. I am just some guy ruining your break."  
He guesses she reminds him of his mother a bit if he's honest with himself. Got that smile for it. And the patience.  
He leaves with a slip of paper in his pocket. He's not sure how to proceed now. Time will tell.


	8. Rundown truths

"You are late." Maven says, staring at his phone. He doesn't move at all. If Thomas didn't know better he'd think the pretty boy is angry. But he knows better. It's more of a mixture made out of shame and frustration, with a few drops of nervousness and a hint of panic.

It's in the way he holds himself. Thomas could almost feel bad. He's still not perfectly over his anger. But that'll not just go away suddenly. Just like Maven won't just turn out fine.

Problems, problems. So much trouble. The old pal.

"Sorry, you know there's still that freaking checkpoint at the station," Thomas answers, trying to put distance between him and the train station. "No dogs anymore, but still a bit iffy."

"I detest being late." He still doesn't make an attempt to move any further. He still doesn't look at Thomas, not really. Only the slightest glance from one side.

They stand on the sidewalk. The sky is dark grey, covered with clouds so full of rain they seem to hang low. Behind Thomas, a train rushes in, stops and the sound is a high shrieking pitch on the rails.

"If we hurry we still make it." Thomas offers. And standing in front of the station together makes him nervous. Not that he thinks any of his friends would hang around at this place, not in the late afternoon. It's still not out of question someone he knows could watch.

And despite his need to just prove the world they can shove their prejudice and hate down where the sun doesn't shine, his rabbit heart makes him want to run. He remembers how there were rumors last summer when he was still homeless. About the cops trying to clean the streets off the dirt. Now with the patrols and all the force pushing on the city, he doesn't want to see how they react to people hanging around. Now he is glad he never attempted to take the gun with him anywhere. The thought alone makes him shudder.

Maven on the other hand still is rooted in place, deliberately trying to buy time. Thomas can see the gears turning in his head.

"Move it." Thomas just huffs buries his hands in his pocket, shivering despite his jacket and the scarf. "Mave, don't try to chicken out now."

"We always could just turn around." Maven offers. "I'll invite you, we get something to eat and watch a movie. Don't you complain we never do anything normal?"

Offering a free meal and a nice evening, how very unfair. Thomas shakes his head at the dirty trick.

"You get to choose the movie." Maven adds, and the bargain is strong. Thomas narrows his eyes. That's a mean trick.

"Tempting," Thomas admits, stepping back to Maven's side. "But no. _Move._ "

Thomas half expects that he has to drag him through town, but of course, Maven is too proud to let that happen. It's his saving grace now. Because he starts to walk.

Thomas pushes through the slapping wind, cutting his face and rendering the point of pulling up his hood again moot. "I am missing my family dinner to keep you company. "

"I could appreciate that if I didn't know you always try to avoid your father."

Thomas makes a face and swallows a pissy comeback. He is right, after all. Not that he would love to see his father. But the rest is supposed to be good and some family time isn't bad.

"Yeah. Well. Where are all the happy wholesome families when you need them."

They step in together after a short trip down the road, and he decides to let responsibility go, for now, holding in the background. The house is in fine shape, not looking like any other in the street.

"You can do this." He tries to be friendly about it.

"You'll wait here, don't you?" Maven asks, blue eyes darting around. Don't need to be a mind reader to see how much he feels trapped.

"Yeah."

Thomas sits down in a chair, leaning back, breathing in a clean smell. There are flowers on the desk, something harmless, barely adding color to the bland room. Everything is friendly but chosen to hold back any personal note.

He's alone with himself and stares at his damaged fingers and the phone in it, playing with it to keep his hands busy.

After a while, it rings.

He expects his sister or maybe one of his friends.

Maybe Cal has decided to spill the beans to Lightning and the witch hunt is up. He waits for that to happen since the day they talked.

But it's someone else entirely.

Not this too. He stares at the screen before he decides to answer at least. To show some decency and demonstrate adulthood.

"Hello Dad," he greets, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Do you care to explain why you told your mother you wouldn't come?"

"Because something came up."

"Something?" his father asks. He sounds his usual angry and frustrated self, like always when they have to deal with each other. It hasn't gotten better with time. They just argue and yell at each other in the end. It escalates every time. "Something that's more important than your family? Thomas, you disappoint me."

No news on that front. For a moment Thomas is silent. Not because he doesn't have twenty comebacks for being told to be a disgrace by his father. But because it's worthless to try and fight this fight. And being witty doesn't change the fact his father isn't supportive or even accepting the way he is.

"I have a life." He defends himself. "Sometimes you can't really plan other people into it. Pops up in an instant sometimes."

"Is this because you don't want to see me?" His father asks downright.

"Would that be bad? We both know how it ends when we meet."

"You can't avoid me forever, Thomas. You are my son."

"Can't argue bout that." Thomas just huffs, drawing his shoulders up. "But I try my best to forget."

"I thought you had left that irresponsible behavior behind when you moved in with your sister. But you are still the same childish boy you were when you dropped out of school to provoke people."

Thomas doesn't try and explain how school was hell for him. The days he came home with bruises and dirt on his ragged clothes can speak for themselves. Always getting in fights and always loosing three versus one.

Always putting on the smooth facade that pissed people even more off, and pretending not to care about insults.

How he decided it was enough.

How he laughed it off as best as he could in front of everyone.

He thinks of all the helpful tips. Telling you to be proud.

An easy thing to say. Especially to a teenager who hates his own skin he has yet to fill. He remembers that time a girl kissed him and he just thought maybe it was the wrong girl. Or the braces. Or something wrong with his head.

 _Cause guys like gals, isn't that so?_

"Whatever," Thomas just shrugs it off, even though no one can see him. "I am kinda busy."

"Don't hang up, Thomas, we need to-"

"Oh no," Thomas exclaims. " My finger slips."

Thomas pushes the button, staring at his reflection in the screen. Cracks running through it like veins, breaking his face into pieces, and every part is an individual creature, bits and pieces other people have left with him. A smile, a pat on the shoulder, a look. Or taken. With fists and fingertips, with force and precision. Cutting holes inside his chest and carving hatred into his skin.

He blinks and the whole network of parts, of course, moves in his reflection when he shakes his head.

Because in the end no matter how much parts there are, they all belong together. Can't exist without each other. Moves together. Until a new crack gets to accompany them.

What is there to wonder who he would be if he turned around somewhere?

That's not helping at all. He has no magical time turner and no machine to get back.

That knowledge doesn't stop it from hurting. Rejection always does and he will probably always gnaw on the one his father gives him.

Maven finds him in the cold, sitting on the stairs and watching some leaves in a muddy puddle to his feet.

"How was it?" he brings himself to ask, sniffing a little. "Honest opinion."

"Complicated." Maven breathes deep. "Terrible. I hated it."

"Think you'll come again?"

"Next week." He admits somewhere between a sour face and defeated shoulders. At least he finally swallowed enough of the pride to go through with this. And he apparently did a better job than with his brother. There's still the matter of stabbing Farley and Barrow in the back. And telling lies about them. And lurking around to be an absolute creep.

One step at a time, Thomas stops himself from imagining his funeral again when they hear about... whatever this is between them. Are they friends? They're not really dating. There's nothing much enjoyable about this. It's problem solving and listening. Trying to find out if there's enough to talk through it and make it up somehow.

"That's good." Thomas manages to say something remotely encouraging.

"Thomas," Hands disappear in pockets. Thomas looks up, scratching his nose. He doesn't know what he expects.

 _Are you okay?_

 _Did you cry?_

 _What's wrong?_

They look at each other through the chill in the air and the noise of a car rushing through wet puddles of rain on the asphalt.

"Can we go?" Maven asks.

Thomas feels disappointed through the blurry haze of sadness weighting in his chest. He shouldn't. He knows how terrible Maven is with feelings and acting on empathy. Even if he does notice, Thomas threatened him to take his hands off, and that hasn't changed. Touching was out of the question before and now even more.

Still. Some comfort would be appreciated.

He realizes he'd give his left arm for a hug. Anything to make it better. He wants to say something mean about his father, vent. But it's not the right time and not the right place. And he doesn't have the right words. Instead, he just gets up. Taking a deep breath.

"Sure thing. I have work tomorrow. And you have something too, sure of it."

He feels lonely when they walk beside each other, an arm's length distance and quiet look.

They part before the station and meet again after the checkpoint, holding away from any acknowledgment for the other until they are safe no one is watching. There aren't many people. A tired looking woman and a guy on his phone.

"I'm proud." Thomas decides to say, feet on the bright safety lines, waiting for the train to approach. "This is progress. Really good."

In the cones of blinking neon light and fading grey autumn day Maven looks pale. "You are probably the only person in the world thinking that."

There are the smallest words. Making the hassle worth. "Thank you for being here."

The words pluck a string inside him, vibrating warm and good. They are accompanied by a quick cast around and a hand touching his, fingers running over the flames embedded in his skin.

Thomas is too perplexed and satisfied for a second to move away. The touch goes as fast as it comes.

He's surprised how easily a little thing like that makes him feel better. For a moment they are almost old Thomas and Maven, sneaking around in the summer, hanging around.

The train ride is still uncomfortable together.

Thomas pretends to stare it of the window or just into another direction and Maven looks down, holding his phone, occasionally shifting or moving his arm to scroll over the screen. When Thomas takes a peek, he hides words under his thumb and quickly closes a window. A name and messages disappear.

Once or twice they attempt to have a conversation. It doesn't really work out.

They are both aware of what's happening.

That's the riskiest and most public thing they did together since they met again. It was downright isolated until now. Meeting up somewhere or moving on foot. And as far from other people as possible. As far from people that could recognize either of them. Not touching is a rule either way, so at least that's safekeeping distance. He is far from happy with the thought of found out. Thomas is a terrible liar. But at least he hasn't spilled the beans yet to anyone. He's too scared off at the moment and who knows if that boy won't just burn all the bridges again?

They meet his apartment or the hallway at most, even less willing to be in public. It doesn't feel so great to be a secret. He remembers how it stung the first time and hell knows what it was that time after. But he's in it now too. People will flip their shit when they find out he's with Maven again.

None of them is particularly chatty after this session. Thomas doesn't blame them. He'd be in bad mood too if he was forced to open up. Or do something as hard and uncomfortable.

He'd be pissed if he had to talk about this with a stranger too.

A voice announces the next stop and Maven shifts slightly before putting his phone away and getting up.

"Bye pretty boy." Thomas musters to say.

"I will call you later." Maven offers, smoothing over his sleeve.

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

The doors beep. A figure in a crimson coat moves away. The train starts moving and he's gone in the blink of an eye, disappearing into the outside world.

The rest of the ride is silent and Thomas sinks into the worn out seat, counting mud stains and dirt on the floor.

He thinks about going home. But he's not really fit to be all alone now. He knows himself. He will just sulk, eat too much and have a headache until he falls asleep, hidden on his mattress, surrounded by too many blankets.

With a sliding sound, the door opens and Thomas leaps out in a little jump that was supposed to look smooth and cool, instead looks more like a drunken frog.

Street rat Thomas always found his way back to Diana Farley and her couch. He didn't attempt to talk his life out with her but they were together and that was all there had to be. Someone who cared. Now with the world changed from its roots and the air smelling like trouble, in a city always on the verge of breaking, it's no different.

He just wants someone to take a look. Just for a second. Maybe kick his ass. Or just tell him it's okay.

"Surprise." He says when the door opens and he sees Shade's face. "Or not... surprise?"

He doesn't look particularly happy to see Thomas.

Thomas shuffles his feet.

"Bad timing." Shade explains but makes room and Thomas slips in like a wet cat on a doorstep, shaking his arms and shrugging the cold off.

It's very, very warm inside.

"Hey Mom, " he greets her back and the very short cut hair along her head. "I brought food."

Farley lies on her couch, and she looks a little green in the light when she turns her head and eyes the bag in his hand.

That's a new one for Thomas. He was sure the world would burn the ground before he would actually see her sick.

"Take that away from me." She says, positively disgusted.

"But Thomas just got here." Shade tries to joke.

Thomas appreciates the effort. He leaves the bag in safe distance before he moves closer. If it's contagious, he'll not be sad to miss work. At least it's a suitable excuse. Better than the ones he had the last months. Heartache doesn't look so good as an excuse.

The way he's squeezed between them reminds him of all the evenings he spent in the apartment. He thinks of them driving in the old red trustworthy van, Thomas leaning forward the driver seat, babbling at Farley, or the other one with Shade, fighting over the radio.

"You look terrible." She says from under her blanket. Thomas laughs at that.

For a second he wants to tell her everything. But he doesn't. He's got enough rejection for today. And not enough energy to argue.

"I can't change my face." He rolls his eyes instead. "I was born with it."

With all that's happened and all the politics involved he's sure he's more of a burden to them than anything. Sure he draws things for them. Because pictures is what he's good at and words are not. But what does a picture matter with checkpoints and curfews, controls and protests? They always were practical and resourceful.

They'd knew what to do. And they wouldn't mope over a silly phone call, would they?

"Is it about our favorite-" Shade asks.

Thomas leans back, interrupting. "Nah, we don't go there."

 _Please don't make me lie to your faces._

"It's family. But that can wait." He decides to say. _You're my family too._ He means. He hopes that much is clear. "Was worried. Farley sick means we all die of a terrible plague soon."

"Yeah, don't worry about that." Shade mutters.

Thomas witnesses a silent moment of telepathy, a look exchanged over his body. Curiosity tingles on his nerves but he doesn't push it. Maybe everyone needs a secret now and then. Be it a boy with blue eyes terrible with feelings, a hidden name on a phone screen or two people on a couch.

Lies won't help the case. But maybe with time, the truth comes out on his own, like a scared animal.


	9. Work days

He's not exactly grateful his sister has gotten him a job. He hates work. That's just it. He hates it so much he wants to skip the same day he starts.

He can't emphasize how much life sucks sometimes. Especially after all the time he didn't lift a finger, laying around and eating, lazy scrolling through the internet and trying to distract himself from the problems.

First off the clothes. A personal hell of beige and white and black and grey. Not like simple is bad. He's strung up with black most of his live. But those clothes look wrong. Like they are made of paper and lethargy instead of fabric. Not comfortable like a pair of pants with holes on the knees. Or a too big sweater you can push to hands into. Work attire stinks. Worst part about it is not the way people blend in together with it. It's that you still see where people are from below the ties and cuffs.

Second? Probably that stinking coffee machine that's worth more than his life. They flock together around it like some pack of hungry hyenas. It tastes terrible. And that's not just because he hates coffee or is incompetent.

If things can taste of despair, he thinks , watching people come and go from the break room. That coffee is distilled pitiful end of all things.

There's a million more wrongs. The air is stale. It's either too hot or too cold.

It's always crowded. Everywhere. There's people and even if there's silence it's not quiet.

He finds himself burying into his drawer and find the old pair of knots that are his headphones. Blocking out as much noise as he can. His playlists are a chaotic mix of random artists and genre's . When people say they listen to anything, they usually don't mean it like this. He avoids things he knows he liked when he was younger , and he avoids others altogether because they remind him of Maven. He can't afford to get entangled again. Too vulnerable. He's in too deep again. And yes, there is the outspoken proposal , the three magic words. But not now. Not like this. He can't say that back.

Maybe it's just the fact he can't sleep in anymore, being lazy to the core. Maybe it's just he's not really used to stay put in one place . He never was particularly fond of school, caught in a room, or work. But at least he had friendly faces around the last times. Cameron had a fixed spot and he misses that. His sister is around here, but she's so busy she might as well walk through him.

At least he's used to people treating him like filth, so not much change on that front. They're not unfriendly. Even polite most times. But they couldn't care less. He's worth less than the coffee machine or the smoke breaks. He does not blame them.

Last year around this time he was black and blue and freezing. He tries to find something valuable in the efforts. It works to a certain extent.

It's the same routine everyday. Ashen grey faces in the morning, standing in line to pass along checkpoints. A robot voice announces the train. Feet shuffling in. They were are like cattle and he hates himself for even thinking something about people that have never done him harm. But that's just it. They never do anything. They look away and hope things stay in the way they know them. It's a pain they can understand and a burden they can bear. Better than uncertainty.

His legs hurt a little from the running and his neck is sore. He eats and sleeps just to repeat. His scarce free time is filled with him hanging around his friends, drawing or trying to unravel the relationship he has with Maven. He feels like it's going to bury him under the weight. There's truths outspoken, finally. And lies told to faces he wants to trust and respect.

He carries on, only because he has to.

The elevator hums when he gets in one morning. The usual day and night, eating , sleeping, listening to a voice on the phone until he falls asleep. He doesn't say good night most times, just getting lulled in by a whisper and the familiar breathing. Some helpless part wants nothing more to actually fall asleep together, close and right with arms circling each other. Waking up because hair tickles your nose or someone warm moves beside you. He squeezes into the farthest corner from the snapping metal doors.

It's pleasantly empty this time. Up until the next stop, that is. At first, a woman and a man in black enter. Thomas squeezes tightly into his corner. Because they radiate the intimidating aura of people able to bash your head in. Then there's a frame in black and blue and Thomas freezes.

He's thought he would be angry or panicking if he ever saw her again. He feels cold. And helpless. Because he knows he can't say anything. Instead he grinds his teeth behind his tightly shut mouth and glances over.

Her eyes are sharp and stinging. They are as blue and vicious as he remembers. They remind him very much of her son. He takes after her in many ways. Her hair is tightly pulled back into a knot, not braided like the last time they met. There's grey on her temple, along the ashen line of hair, only slightly visible, but there nonetheless.

Only for a tiny fraction of time their eyes lock. There's recognition and spite and Thomas feels his teeth grinding so hard he could be chewing rocks.

If she feels anything at all she is not letting it show. Why would she? She made her opinion on him so very clear.

And he's nothing. She told him that and he will never forget.

He wonders how much she knows. If she is going to be a problem. Until now he avoided even thinking about her. Maven had it covered, it seemed. Finding excuses to stay out or leave, answering the phone in a perfect manner not letting anything show.

Now he's in her gaze and she is a vulture. He thought of her as a bird of prey the first time he saw her from afar. It hasn't changed a bit.

He can't stop staring at her, merely an arm length away. The elevator rumbles upward and it seems to take an eternity until the doors open again and she steps out, with her usual stride, heels clicking.

He stares after her, catching a whiff of her perfume. It burns in his nose.

His hands are tightly clasped at his sides. The day is ruined.

"Does your mother know we meet again?"

"I didn't explicitly tell her." Comes the pondering answer from the other side of the call. "But I am sure she notices discrepancies in my usual schedules."

"So that's a yes?"

"I don't understand your concern. You didn't care until now."

"Did I ever tell you she casually waited for me in that summer to threaten me?" It runs in the family, he thinks. Pretty mean. He banishes that thought into a dark corner of his mind.

"I am certain you never mentioned that." It sounds stifled and Thomas can imagine the muscles on the neck twitching in an effort to stay without showing any reaction. "But it does sound like something she would do. She always was persistent."

"Not what I would call it." Thomas huffs. " But okay."

"I suggest you let it go." Maven ends the discussion with mildly displayed coldness. Behind that, Thomas is sure, is a lot of hurt and anger. And much more problems than he is able to handle.

He can't let it go. His sister finds him in the middle of the night like she often did since they moved in, on a chair in the kitchen with the laptop. Taking on the bad habit of staring at the screen again. Like it holds the secrets of the world. He looks at Elara Merandus face. At the lines in her face.

If he had the chance, what would he even say? He's not a good talker. She'd always have the upper hand. But if there isn't a load he wants out.

If anyone ever tried to keep the old ways it is her. She seems like a driving force when it comes to all this mess.

And doesn't it fit?

He remembers the night of the bombs and presses his eyes together when the images come back. The flames and the smell, the burning car and the smoke. A head smashed into the asphalt next to him, red blood sprinkled over the ground.

"Tommy, you're doing it again." She says, blinking confused and hazy, dragging herself to the sink.

"I know. I just.." He studies the face on the screen one last time, her eyes and the way she holds her head like she is indeed the queen of the world. "I met her yesterday. At work?"

"She owns half the city, including that company. And Blonos is a bootlicking flatterer."

He hums, in agreement or discomfort , he is not sure.

"I am sorry you had to go through with it." She says, touching his shoulder slightly.

"Nah, not your fault." He holds onto her hand. It's warm and smooth, nails polished white and clean. His are calloused and rough in comparison, nails dirty half moons ."Was just angry."

"You know people work hard to change things." She says, hair flowing wild around her face. She looks young and fragile in the small cone of white light.

"Yeah." He wonders what she sees when she looks at him. If he's still the same boy that his father insists he will always be. A failure and a fraud.

"No, really. " She blows a strand of hair out of her face. "It takes a lot organization and work to keep the lot together. Don't underestimate that. People are scared. Building their courage is hard. Politics are not just protests."

"Probably." He agrees. He knows she is right. It's the reason he sees his friends not as much as he wants. And never really gets to keep them.

"Go to bed, Tommy. It's late." She whispers, pressing a small kiss on his tousled hair. He breathes the touch in. It's the most comfort he has felt for a while. He's more glad than ever he decided to take her offer and move in with her.

He still hasn't shown up at home and rarely calls or shoots a message. She's the only family he has at the moment. Which makes some things unbearable.

He catches her sight at work sometimes, but she is mostly busy and he doesn't try to interrupt. He doesn't need to ruin chances for her too.

One day he catches her again in the hallway, but she's not alone. There's an elderly man next to her and they talk. He looks faintly familiar, and Thomas remembers his face because he's one of the higher end. Blonos. Silver.

His sister is grabbing papers with both her hands like they are a lifebelt.

Blonos looks at her like she's nothing better than some pretty jewellery, or furniture. Definitely not like a human being. It's creeping right under his skin.

His hand remains inappropriate long on her shoulder. Then it wanders down even further. It moves slowly over her back.

To his surprise his sister doesn't do anything. He thought she'd hit him, but she doesn't even step away. She's lowering her dark eyes and waits until he moves away.

If this was about him he could be able to shrug it off, play it down and bury it with the rest of all the ballast. He's used to the cuts and burns. But not her. Not his sister. She always cared. Sure she could be mean and bossy as older siblings can be but she always cared. Always looking after him.

Anger is coiling under his skin. It's gripping him tightly. He's not one to start a fight. Or win one. But he wants now.

"Hannah," he musters to say, jaw clenched. "Does he do that often?"

"Tommy, stop." She tries to brush it off. " It's nothing."

"You're preaching about equality and rights, and now you take some dude in your office treating you like THIS?"

"He's harmless." She tries again. It sounds weak. She's clearly uncomfortable with it.

"You're not meat." He mutters. "You gotta complain or shit."

"I can't afford to get fired."

"Why would they fire you?"

A strand of hazel hair has escaped the knot in her neck. She brushes it behind her ear.

For a second Thomas and Hannah are standing in the hallway and he thinks they are kids again. The way she stares him down, not wanting to tell him things that could harm him. Scolding him for doing something stupid. But he's not a child anymore. And he isn't irresponsible . This is another wrong on the list.

"Do I need to get someone you are actually listen to? Like Farley? Or even Cameron?"

"I think Cameron has enough on her plate as it is." Hannah says, sympathetic.

Thomas furrows his brow. "What are you talking about? She's good. She has a home. She makes friends."

"Do you actually know anything about the girl you call your best friend?" Hannah says, voice hard.

"We don't do past and shit." He avoids her eyes for a moment. " She hates talking about that."

True enough, he knows nothing about her. She doesn't talk. The scars and her crooked long fingers tell tales, but he never dared to ask. When he does she blocks and he knows she won't say a word.

Her brother has always kept along that line. And they aren't as close.

"Visit her." She says. " And ask where her brother is."

Thomas grabs his sisters hand not ready to get distracted by her words.

"Next time," Thomas promises. "Next time I see him treat you this way. Or even breath in your direction. I'll not step down."

Hannah is silent. But she presses his hand for a friction of a second before letting go.

* * *

The house is creaking and bending, as most in the neighbourhood. There's cracks in the street and loose cobbles. Water gurgles down the gully. It has been raining non stop the last day. There's still fog clouding the world. He shivers in his coat as he makes his way down the road, keeping an eye out. If there's any place screaming to be robbed or mistreated, it's this part for sure. Oh does it feel like home. It even smells the same. Garbage and rubble, dust and dirt. Rain and river.

He expects the elderly woman opening the door. Nanny, Lightning called her when he tickled the information about Cameron's whereabouts out of her.

People always know more than he does. Like he can't be trusted. It's probably for the best.

"Hello. I was looking for Cameron?" Thomas says, mustering all the politeness he was taught.

"That's stupid." He hears a sour voice say. "And bullshit."

Nanny looks back. "I am sure you've guessed she's here. Come on in. Down the hallway."

"No mistaken in that rudeness." Thomas smiles a little. He feels a little less nervous.

"It's her superpower." Nanny says, following him through the hallway like a trusted guard.

Thomas chuckles. "Accurate."


	10. The habits of apologies

It's warm and clean inside. Not like the ruin, it looks outside. True there are some signs of previous neglect. But it's clear the inhabitants care as best as they can to keep it tidy.

Down the hallway, at the stairs, Thomas takes in the willowy sight of Cameron. She wears a sweater too big, with her crooked fingers barely visible under the long grey sleeves.

There's a burn hole in one of them.

"You got a visitor."

Thomas smiles when she looks over at him. Like she wasn't expecting him to ever stand in her doorway.

"What's up?"

She scowls slightly at his cheerful voice.

The stairs creak under the weight when they make their way up.

"So," he looks over the small room, stacked with two beds and clearly divided by an invisible line in the middle of the room. There's some rocked an old poster on her side, and he remembers giving it to her after she came around at his home the first time. After they talked about music and he realized fifteen-year-old Thomas would have had a blast with her, marching through the too loud noise and tackling people to piss them off. Because he could.

It's the only thing he recognizes. What does he know about her?

She's tech-savvy. And really smart. And she could probably break a guys nose with one hit.

"How long have you been living here?"

"What's it matter?" She asks back, shoving her head forward, jaw a little clenched.

"Just curious." He mutters and looks around again. "Nice room."

Thomas sits down on her small bed. Something is missing. He's not sure what it is.

"Why are you here, Thomas?" She asks and doesn't even sound really annoyed like so often. Just insistent. And she uses his name. Never a good sign.

"My sister said something." He decides to start. Thinking of the sympathetic way his sister looked when she said Cameron had enough on her plate. " That I don't know anything about you. And at first, that made me angry. Because you're my best friend. I know everything. How you sit and talk, how you wrinkle your nose I different kinds of grumpiness. I know how you flip people off and how you give them mean names even if you like them." He sighs, looking at her face. She's really pretty, or could be. But she doesn't even care.

He studies her dark skin and the way her hair curls along her ears and down her neck.

Wondering that with all the people he tried to draw, from Maven over Farley and Shade to even Lightning, he never tried to draw her. Not even just to shove it in her face and get a tiny snarl or eyes rolling. Or maybe even a "not too bad.". That's the best compliment she gives and he knows it means a lot.

"But she was right. I mean, we never talk about you. You don't tell me anything. I didn't even know you lived here until I asked Lightning."

"Always liked that you didn't try to be a pushover." She just says, crossing her arm with such openly shown spite it's not fitting for someone her age. She should be happy and healthy, but she doesn't seem happy at all. What her life must have been like.

"I just wanna be a good friend. So you know you can always talk to me."

"You were a good friend, asshat. We took care of each other." She says and Thomas makes a face. This isn't at all what he expected. But then again, this is the drill. They never yell at each other.

He had his amount of yelling at people, even insulting them. Flipping his family off, yelling at Farley, hissing and snapping at Maven. Never her. Because they insult each other all the time. It has another meaning.

He thinks of all the hours she spent, hiding him under a blanket or watching him work. She wouldn't deserve the yelling. She deserves something else. An apology.

"If I had taken care of you I'd have found you a flat. I'd have shit-talked so much you and your brother would have moved in. I just cried about Maven and complained how bad it was to have a bed and a warm meal wherever whenever. I would know you. Like...where did you come from? What about your parents?"

She scowls slightly. There's a moment of fighting in her face before she opens her mouth and answers him. "I am born outta the city. In a smaller town. Not very popular. People rarely leave."

He takes in that information grateful. Like a dried out plant after a drought, eagerly. "And your parents? Are they...still alive?"

"Dead. The lot of them." She answers, looking out of the small window into the night sky.

"Oh," Thomas makes. "I'm sorry, Cookie."

"You didn't drive them into death by ruining their lives, so don't fucking apologize."

"Yeah, I think I'd remember that." Thomas jokes uncomfortable."I never lost family that way so I just feel bad you were all alone."

"Wasn't. I had Morrey."

The way she says that speaks for itself. It's low and contained. But there's something sad and helpless behind it. And the Cameron Cole Thomas knows is never helpless. That one fights with her bare teeth to death.

He knows what he noticed before now. That there is only her stuff on her side of the room and no trace of his belongings.

He has been gone for a while. Even before she moved in with Nanny and the others.

"Where is he?"

"They took him." Anger and hurt gleam in her eyes. " Has been a while."

"They?" Thomas asks.

"We needed to survive when we were alone." She starts. "Did some things. Silver scum wanted to lock us up. We always got away. But then I met you. And wanted to stay. Shit went down. They took him."

"Fuck, and you didn't say a word." He whispers and feels terrible.

"Yeah what would you do but make a face." She is deadpan serious for a second.

He bites his lips.

"I could try and find a way to see if he's okay."

"And who'd you ask?"

"Eh," he says, searching for a suitable lie. He doesn't find one quick and feels he can't avoid answering. "Maybe Farley or Lightning or someone who...eh..."

Not like she doesn't have access to those people as well.

He tries not to look at her face, concentrating on a spot on the wall behind her.

It doesn't work.

"Alright, I am kinda back with Maven." He blurbs into her face.

He expects her to hit him or snarl at him but she just waits.

"You knew that." He finally realizes, confused.

"Yeah, and you are a fucking moron. Wasn't hard figuring out when you stopped whining about him and always made bad jokes when the topic came up."

 _Thomas, you really are a terrible liar. You must suck even more than you think._

But credit where it is due. She's a tough cookie, of course, she'd figure it out. She has listened to him mooning far too often.

"I want to slap you through the room and down the stairs for being an idiot."

"But you won't?" he asks hopefully.

"Wouldn't change a thing. You're stuck with your head up his ass."

"Maybe not my head," he suggests and earns the long-awaited hit to his shoulder with her fist.

She sits down next to him and he thinks again what an odd pair they make. Not because her skin is a shade darker than his, especially now with the tanning sun gone. Or because she is a head taller, even though she's only fifteen. Even not because she's pretty when he is not. Because she has willpower and strength, endurance. All the qualities he finds himself lacking. He pushes through but never with as much spunk as she would. He accepts hit after hit and waits.

She is the younger one but she's his shield. She guards him like a rabid dog, teeth bare, hiding his weakest spots from the rest of the world.

"This is a fucking mess and you never listen , asshat," Cameron says, very low. "Whatever you two got is dead wrong and it hurts you."

He huffs at her in disbelief. "Bit dramatic, isn't it? He's getting better. And I can look out for myself."

"If he does hurt you again," she finishes that thought. "I'll cut out his heart."

He takes in her seriously grumpy face and he laughs. Like she always makes him laugh, too long and so hard he can barely breathe. A real tearing laugh from his inside.

"I think you'll need to get in line for that."

She makes a disgusted noise and it's genuinely warming Thomas to see them back on track. It poisons him, inside from his core to know he should have cared and didn't. Maybe he cares too much for certain and too less for other people.

"Will you tell anyone?" He asks.

Her mouth twitches when she gives it a thought. "Ought to. You're pissing on a lot of people. But I'll wait and give you a chance to do it yourself."

He extends his arm around her back but doesn't touch her. "You're my best girl."

Her arm reciprocates the gesture and gives his back a hard pat.

"You're an idiot. But you owe me a tattoo. "

Thomas laughs so hard he needs to hold himself tight at her side. "I know!"

He feels a little lighter with every step when he finally leaves her room.

Nanny sits in the kitchen. He passes her on the way downstairs and out. There's Ada, the girl he occasionally sees, and another blends almost in the background as if is a blurry illusion. Not sticking out at all.

"I'm off, but thanks for letting her stay." He throws Nanny a long look. "And looking after her."

"She never has visitors. " Nanny answers. "So it is good you're here."

He smiles at her.

"Your sister works for Blonos, doesn't she?" Ada suddenly asks, tilting her head slightly.

"Yeah?" He furrows his brow. "He's an asshole."

She doesn't disagree and leans over her cup. Nanny watches them both silent.

There's something Ada doesn't say but she doesn't have to. It creeps right under his skin and makes him angry again.

"Have a nice evening." He just waves a last goodbye before leaving.

He doesn't immediately head home after leaving the house behind. Instead, he finds himself trying to catch another ride to a different part of town, moving on the outskirts.

Another apology run it seems. There's a lot he could say.

* * *

No one seems to be at home. So he sits on the porch and wips out his old trusty pencil and paper.

It takes the better part of a rough sketch and some shadows added before Cal turns up home.

They both stare at the paper in Thomas' hands for a while before speaking. Hollow eyes and abstract circles that fade into claws. "Didn't want to draw it at first," Thomas says. "But, y'know, it's part of it, somehow. Part of it all."

Cal watches the image as if it was a being alive and the claws able to cut him.

"You think he would mind?" Thomas asks, feeling guilty. " I never show him images I make of him. That'd be kinda embarrassing."

"I think he'd tell you that you are talented." He answers after a while. "He always paraded your work around. And later he'd stare at the sketches you posted."

" I wouldn't have worked on it if he hadn't told me." Thomas smiles a little, remembering their talks and the way Maven watched him draw. "I'm sorry, dude."

There's pain flaring through them until Cal turns away.

"Mare is not here." He just says.

"I know. I wanted to talk to you." Thomas sighs. "Apologize for ruining your birthday. And because your brother can be a dick. He's trying to get better tho. Goes to therapy, is nice to me. I think he means it, as much as he can mean something. He has a good moment."

There's the sound of a keychain and a door being opened. Thomas waits a moment before he follows. He knows he has no right to demand they make it up. And it's not like Cal was the one starting it.

"How long will that last?" he asks genuinely interested. His eyes take in Thomas nervous shuffling form. " Especially with his mother being around."

Thomas bites his lips. "Thought about that a lot. But it's not like I can snatch him away. He's old enough to leave."

Though the thought of carrying Maven out holds some amusement.

 _How would I even do that? Piggyback? Or bridal style, for the utmost embarrassment._

"You know this shit. I need some advice, even if you're never going to talk to Maven again." Thomas forces the words out with an ounce of desperation.

Cal takes a long breath. For a second there's a long crack in his calm facade and Thomas realizes he's just as bruised and battered as everyone else.

"I honestly don't know. You need to do it your way. "His warm eyes take in Thomas thoughtful. "Don't ever underestimate the power and the will of that woman. She's not going to make anything easy for you, Thomas."


	11. Alacrity

**Thank you for your kind comments and for sticking to my story! And just like Thomas, I need something good once in a while. So if this is too fluffy, I have little regrets.**

* * *

"Can I see you?" The words sound almost too good, too harmless, and Thomas fears the next snap. The next trap. The next lie lurking behind the corner.

"I'm at the train station. Just got off work." Not a yes and not a no. Waiting for another question.

"I can stop by the apartment." Maven offers. There's no real importance or urgency, not like he sometimes offers. When he's high and mighty because things are important and urgent. It sounds more like an offer to hang out than anything. Hanging out, huh? That's something they haven't done for a while. It's always truth talks and shit going on.

"Nah," Thomas declines, still twitching with frustration. "We can meet somewhere. Need to go grocery shopping anyway."

He's pleasantly surprised when he sees a familiar slender frame waiting at the stop. The crimson peeks through the foggy air like blood flowing down a gutter. There's a familiar pair of headphones resting along a neck and a dark hat and matching scarf hiding slightly tousled dark hair.

Whatever the planned greeting, Thomas shuts him off efficiently.

"This" Thomas makes a gesture around himself as if he is in an invisible bubble. "is drama free zone today, okay? I'm shit tired."

He walks in silence to his right. He takes that as agreement.

"How was your day?"

"People called me Tim and gave me all of the work they were supposed to do. My head hurts and I ran around the whole time without a real break. My best friend thinks I am shitlord. My friends are branded as terrorists and criminals. And my sister got trouble but won't act on it. So what do you think?"

For the slightest second Maven looks like he is about to answer the rhetorical questions, but deciding against it for the clear reasons. Thomas makes a huff, head down, into his scarf. For a moment he wants to let it all out, but what will snapping at Maven help. It's only partially Maven's fault he's in this situation.

"You look not good." He instead says, eyes creeping up the coat and the slightest tousled hair. Maven's circles are deeply etched into the skin under his eyes. He's thin and clearly as tired as Thomas. Or maybe even more, knowing the sleeping and hiding habits he practices. There is no feverish energy, only something beaten. Like a sleepwalker. Nothing snarling. Only gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. "Sorry for being pissy. It's just a lot to take sometimes."

"I suppose it is."

He feels reminded of their endless strolls through the nicer parts of town, just the walking, and the way they talked about nothing and all. It wasn't a good time. But they were not so bad. Better off younger versions of themselves. All these burdens and tangled feelings don't really help to build up stable. It's more of a card house, build by enthusiastic hands, high up, a pyramid of ambition and wishes. One soft blow, one wrong move, and it falls. If he thought the last time was unbearable, this time it will be an absolute end. A death. And no voodoo can reanimate the corpse of their relationship or his life this time.

A gush of warm air hits his face when the door slides open and makes a little beeping sound.

He stares indecisive at everything and nothing when they enter the store. He half expects every single person that would disapprove of their relationship to jump up from behind the shelves. Of course, no one is there.

"Should have written a list." He mutters, scratching his nose.

"How about you get to choose and I pay?"

"Eh." Thomas makes unsure and a little thrown off by the prospect.

It's not hard to follow his train of thought. "Are you thinking about owing me again?"

But as always, beggars can't be choosers. And he's grown out of the need to repay every bit of debt and money. It's about something like food and not a diamond ring. He ought to let it loose. No need to fight. And he has little money when Maven probably has more than enough.

"No, it's good. This once."

* * *

"Thomas." His blue eyes look almost judging at the pile of sweets.

"What? You said I can choose?" Thomas feels like a child pouting. It amuses him. He's almost giddy.

 _We are doing groceries. We're doing a normal thing. Where everyone can see._

"That's not what I meant by that. Put it back on the shelf."

"Can I keep one?" he asks hopefully, giving his best charm. "Come on, my pretty boy, I need my daily dose of sugar."

"One." Maven agrees, looking at the phone in his hand. "Do you ever eat healthily?"

"Sure." Thomas randomly takes things out of the shelves and boxes, looks at it and puts it back. "How was your session, by the way?"

Discussing private in public. He should know better than to expect a real answer.

"Terrible. Abysmal. But a success, I'd wager, for someone with my reputation on refusal."

"Good to hear you pushing through." Thomas looks at an apple like it will open a portal into the fifth dimension. It takes a moment before he grabs one, turning it around in his hands.

"You are aware, this might not even change anything?" Maven's blue eyes follow the apple too. " I will not be a different person suddenly."

It's not like the flu. It doesn't go away and you can carry on like nothing ever happened. If anything Thomas would say it's like cancer, poison spreading through veins. But there is no radiation to fight it, no way to cut it out, to purge it. There's just time and patience. Just work. There are good and bad days.

"Good. I like parts of this person." Thomas says without thinking, throwing the apple into the air like a one-armed juggler. " You're my nerd, telling me about chicken dragons and stupid science." His voice is much softer than he'd anticipated. " You are wicked smart. You have a good sense of humor if you want to. And you like my art since the day we met. Why would I want that to change?"

He could as well just told Maven he loves him. But that won't happen. Not now. Maybe, maybe later.

He doesn't know what he expects to happen after that confession. Maybe mock. Or a little huff and a wave to dismiss it.

Instead, he gets the simplest shake of a head and that look that he always receives when he does something incredibly stupid or inconceivable.

This is normal. Normal is good. Normal ought to happen more often.

They both just remain in that peaceful harmless moment as long as possible.

* * *

As soon as the door opens, he clutters his bags and the jacket off, throwing everything on the floor. His keys make a rattling sound when they land on the kitchen table.

"I hate this so much." He rips at the tie until the knot comes off and almost strangles himself with it in the process.

" You look decent in it," comes the answer from behind, rustling paper bags in tow." It suits you, Tim."

"Haha," Thomas makes but feels his lip tugged into half a smile. " Trying to be funny?"

He unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt and slips it over his head. His t-shirt sticks to it and he decides to slips over his head too.

"Humour is the weapon of-" Maven starts but never finishes, seemingly thrown off by something.

There's a pile of dirty clothes on his doorstep. He fishes in it for a while, sniffing critically. When Thomas turns his head he finds him staring.

"Yeah I know," Thomas says, feeling the way the dirty pile of clothes burns a hole in Maven's sense of tidiness." Didn't do laundry."

He gives the pile one last try before he wanders carelessly into his sisters room and snatches one of her oversized shirts.

It's a glorious unicorn made of bright pixel blocks. She wears it to sleep. Well, tough luck now she'll never see it again.

"You okay?" Thomas asks, chuckling. "You look funny."

Maven's eyes shift slightly and suddenly Thomas realizes he wasn't paying attention to the pile at all.

"Wait," he teases. "Did you just check me out?"

"I did no such thing." Maven answers, a little flustered.

He feels an unwelcome heat in his bones, combing some unruly strand of hair out of his face.

"Whatever happened to the truth pact, Mave?"

"I always liked looking at you." Comes the bristling answer.

Because you always look at things. Thomas thinks. You look at life like it's a pattern or a crossword puzzle, but you don't understand the language sometimes. You're still smart enough to try and solve it, whatever way.

"Nothing you haven't seen before, yeah?" he whispers instead, tugging at the shirt, flames curling along his fingers and steel plates armoring his arm. "Not really impressive."

There's the flickering spark again in the air. Silly. It was just a look.

A look studying his back, trailing up and down his back, his stomach, along with his ribcage. Like hands that did the same once, in some feverish and wrong night.

Those same hands are gripping the bag they are still holding a little harder now. And the eyes are still watching him carefully. "You were always awfully critical of yourself."

"Look who's talking." Thomas jokes. "True tho. Never felt good enough."

There's a long elaborate silence of unshared thoughts and unspoken words.

"If anyone ever was good enough," Maven breaks their silence. "It was you."

He smiles because it's the nicest thing someone could ever say. There is still the fear, that this is all a lie again. He does not buy it, not really. Still good to hear. Like in the train station, it plucks strings inside his heart and plays a little song in his soul. It paints a picture, with broad strokes, an image of something that could be good, somehow, of himself being enough. He always tells himself he is fine. Hearing someone else say it helps. Even more, if it comes from someone rarely meaning compliments truly honest.

"You're cute again," Thomas says, still smiling.

There's an indifferent hum. "Most certainly not."

It would be easy to take two steps and kiss him. He has done it often, but it was never enough. He thought he could do it a million times more and never get tired. But that was before...before everything.

He imagines his hands clinging to the sharp line of a cheek, sinking into black hair. How there would be slightest of breaths, a fluttering moment, with nothing but two bodies being drawn together.

Maven's hands would trail a line along his side, and one would rest there. Their lips moving along, not willing to part. Making sure the other knows this is exactly what they were meant for.

It could trail away from the safe path, or just turn into something comfortable.

It would be good. Just for a moment.

But after it, there would be some more trouble. It would open even more scars and wounds and it would destroy the slow healing. There would be demands and questions. And truth be told, would they be ready to go through with it this time?

They always hide. Push and pull and hurt when things get too serious.

He feels like they are drawn together with force, like magnets.

The moment passes.

Thomas breathes in deep and Maven looks at the grocery bag in his hands.

He realizes they never actually did something like cooking before. He isn't sure how it is going. He's not the best at it. And he has no clue if Maven knows what he's doing. He doesn't look too bothered. Just occasionally glances at his phone before returning to the task at hand. He's organized and efficient, precise, as he's always. When he sees the way Thomas randomly throws things on the counter and forgetting them Thomas can't stop but think he's about to have a stroke from all the mess and carelessness.

"If I'd known you can cook I would have let you way earlier," Thomas says, leaning on the small counter and watching Maven with a knife next to him, deciding the kitchen is too small to flurry around if one has a sharp object in handling.

"I follow instructions. That should suffice, shouldn't it?" The steel makes a chopping sound when it hits wood.

"Don't ask me. People say I'd eat a salted sock."

"Very true." Maven confirms, looking over for a second, putting the knife down slowly.

Thomas nudges his shoulder slightly when he's sure it won't end with a cut off a finger.

They eat in silence. It's mostly Thomas eating everything, barely chewing. It has something endearing to just sit together and not needing to talk.

There's a judging look again when he empties half a bottle of hot sauce over his meal but all it sparks in return is a chuckle and another swallowing bite.

When they are done and the dishes clink in the sink Thomas looks over hopefully, ignoring the clock ticking against them.

"Wanna watch a movie?" He asks.

"I don't know." Maven answer and his hopes fall for a second. " Are we watching trashy movies about worms eating people again?"

Thomas laughs in relief. Too loud and too much. "They're not just worms. They are giant wormlike creatures. And you liked it!"

"Sometimes," Maven acknowledges with dry sarcasm. " to my utter distaste, I have weak moments."

"Don't be an ass." He shakes his head."No worms this time." Thomas promises. " Maybe more space battles. Want to have some sweet explosions. Boom and all."

"You wouldn't hear an explosion like that in space. Sound travels through-"

"Yeah yeah, " Thomas gives him a mocking dismissive wave. "Keep your smart ass comments for the movie, dude."

Sprawling along his mattress, long limbs stretched out, they barely have enough space. They still keep a bit distance. As much as it allows anyways.

"It's rather strange," Maven looks thoughtful, eyes flickering blue in the lights of the screen. "When you realize slowly whatever you considered normal never was."

"But you figure it out with help, don't you?"

"With time, perhaps."

"I remember when we were dating the first time you had Wednesday busy. What was that about?"

"I burned down a house. My family had to pretend I was in good care. Luckily we have renowned doctors and psychiatrists in the family."

Thomas makes a disgusted noise and earns the tiniest of cold smiles.

"Rest assured I was told what a farce it was from the beginning. That I wouldn't need any help. I gladly believed it. But in the end, it was more of an aim to control me. He wasn't very subtle about it."

To that Thomas agrees, shaking his head slightly.

It takes all the courage his rabbit heart has to press the matter further.

"You need to get the fuck out." He finalizes his thoughts. "I mean, she's your mother but what's it good for? If you really wanna be okay, you can't stay there."

"And where would I go?" Maven asks, tilting his head slightly. He's cluttered along the discussion, not really there for a moment.

"Thought about that. Obviously, you need something for yourself." He doesn't mention he talked to Cal. They need their own pace to work things out. Time is what that takes. "But you could crash with me if you don't mind? Just for a while."

"Are you asking me to move in?" Maven mocks. "Not very subtle, Thomas."

"Yeah, " Thomas rolls his eyes. "make fun of me, not like I want to help."

"You'd need to explain it to everyone. People will not take this lightly."

As if he hasn't thought about that the second the idea hit him.

His sister will freak out. Lightning will freak out. The freakout will be big enough to nuke everything he has valued about his friendships.

And would it really work out? It could make things indefinitely worse to live together in a confined space.

"I want you to be okay for once."

He extends his arm. Not really putting it around Maven. More of an invitation, testing water careful.

"I mean, I can't hold up to your dysfunctional family. But I have seen some shit when I was homeless." He sighs, fingertips twitching in waiting. "And I don't mean literal shit. Tho that's a problem too if you don't have a bathroom. So I know having no home is not a walk in the park."

Maven is looking at the arm around him like it can turn into a snake.

"Thomas," There's eyes grabbing him right back into everything he told himself was over forever. "I-"Maven starts.

"I want to be with you." Thomas cuts him off before he can change his mind.

"What?" There's the tiniest furrowed brow, in clear confusion.

"I want to go to sleep with you, and eat with you, and watch movies when I get home" He smiles a little, amused by his own head. "And, eh, some other things. I just mean I wouldn't mind living with you. We're basically spending so much time, what's the difference."

He wants to stand in his kitchen and watch him freak out a little because there's something messy. He wants to talk away at night until they fall asleep. He wants all the good little things.

So what if they fight? They fought in the past. They know how nasty it can be.

So what if he's damaged beyond belief and their relationship is broken and hard?

He can't afford to lose it again.

" You can be disarming with your honesty. You always were." His body leans forward, and for a moment he's almost relaxed. No hunched shoulders, wide open and waiting.

He curls up along Thomas' chest, an arm slipping over his side like he did when he was asleep.

He is reminded of the evening on the couch, the movie nights and the way Maven's arms were slung around him.

Thomas' hand reaches out stroking slow and careful through dark hair.

When he looks down, he sees Maven's eyes half closed. "Your heart is beating really fast." He mutters.

"Sorry, rabbit heart and all."

"I'm not associating you with a rabbit."

"No?"

"You were always more of a cat."

"That's worse." Thomas laughs dry. His hands feel the skin warm, and muscles twitching under it, a body coiling together because of his touch. "You know I hate cats."

As weird and sad as it is to acknowledge it, their bodies know the drill and they are better at communication than their words ever were.

They fit into each other, every hollow, every crack and every curve. There's only a minimum of fumbling and misplaced limbs.

"Promise me you think about it." He whispers, leaning his chin on Maven's head.

There's a pleasant humming in his body, waves vibrating along his ribcage where Maven's face is buried, and on his fingertips where Thomas touches him.

"I will take it into consideration."

"That's probably the best I can get." Thomas agrees. His lips are a soft flutter when they plant a kiss on top of the hair. The images on the screen rush by without them noticing really, just arms around the other. Blocking the world out and away.

 _For once I just want something good. Is that too much to ask?_


	12. Places to be

_"The country is still in mourning about the countless acts of terrorism shaking our society."_ A voice greets him. His sister sits at the kitchen table, with some sort of construct made of her phone and a book, watching an interview or something. To his surprise, his best friend has planted her ass on the seat next to her, wearing the grey shirt with the burn hole again.

They aren't really friends, but they sometimes do this, especially since he wouldn't leave the bed or go anywhere. It's a familiar sight but in a good kind. "People argue about the need to strengthen the police forces and the military. You made your stance very clear these last months."

"Bitch, you did," Cameron says, filled to the brim with hatred and anger.

His sister snorts. Thomas stops, watching them.

Their hair is down a mass of frizzled curls and dark strands.

 _" A clear stance is very important."_ someone defends. _"We should be grateful for someone as strong and willing as Mrs. Merandus to defend our rights."_

"Oh shit," Thomas says and ducks behind them, squeezing his head between theirs, almost resting on their shoulders. He gets a nudge from one side and a pat from the other.

The camera pans around in the room and he looks at a very, very familiar frame with blue eyes, ashen hair put into a tight knot.

 _"Some people and organizations could argue we cut down the rights of the Red population."_ someone says very quietly, not really understandable in the whole mumble.

"He just destroyed his life and lost his reputation." His sister comments and crosses her arms.

 _"Let us not forget the bombs tore a whole in any form of reasonable negotiation. It was a throwback for any attempt to provide a sense of stability. "_

 _"Stability is a key word here. How can they expect any form of adjustment when there is no answer but violence?"_

"Ugh." Cameron makes. Some sort of creative slur follows soon enough.

Thomas agrees before he gets up and scavenges the cupboard. He doesn't have the guts to look at this now. He'll see that woman soon enough again.

It's a little like they are playing tag, pulling the foundations down, wondering where the other is. Not like she's not aware of where he is most of the time. He's pretty sure she knows everything by now.  
He's just a lowlife. Not as ragged and ratty anymore, but not worth to openly acknowledge his existence. Oh, but he is sure she does. It's in the way she moves whenever they meet at the elevator or looks grazing, barely able to hold. He feels like he is about to explode.

"I have something for you."

"You are shady again."

Maven doesn't take the bait. "More specific, it's because you asked me about the whereabouts of your friend's brother. And if I wanted to help out clearing charges against a branded group of terrorists and criminals."

"And you won't help, you won't even apologize."

"Luckily I don't have to." It's an USB stick. A tiny silver thing. It slips easily into Thomas' hand. " I owe you that one. But don't expect me to jump around spouting about family business."

"Family business? What the-" he doesn't get to ask the question.

And even if he did. He would not get an answer.

"Let us assume I asked someone very friendly. I won't go into details about any of my or my mother's methods."

Whatever bad blood between his mother and him, he won't rat her out. Shame, really. But then again, maybe it's the grown-up thing to do. At least for now. Or maybe it's the last rest of loyalty. Or whatever twisted version those two have to each other.

Maybe he's afraid of the backlash. After all, there are things he has had an intake. He's been with her a lot. Who knows what he knows.

All the better if he finally leaves.

"I'll have to get this to my friend. Bet you don't wanna tag along. But maybe come over later? My sister is gonna babysit the evening?"

There is a pondering moment before Maven leans over and presses the softest fluttering kiss on Thomas' cheek.

"You are a good person, Thomas."

"I try, sometimes." Thomas jokes.

Pretending this is all stable and healthy and normal and not a shitton of work and hurt.

His sister finds him more often in the middle of the night.

"Are you looking up Elara Merandus again?" she asks drowsily.

"It's always going down," he whispers, twirling his pen in his fingers.  
She is clearly confused, still half trapped in a dream, looking at him in her unicorn shirt. "What?"

"I mean the elevator, "he explains and his pencil hits the desk with a clinking sound. "Always down. You'd expect her to go to the upper level, boss and all."

She's willing to at least consider that before she answers. "Maybe you always catch her when she heads for her car. There are things like parking decks."

"No, I swear, it's something else."

She sighs. "Please stop, Tommy. Not every bad person has a secret lair hidden behind a fake wall."

"But-ugh." He takes a deep breath.

"No, listen." she shakes her head. "I work in that building. You don't think I check things out? There's no secret basement and central control. If anything, there's some dirt on Blonos, but rest assured that's under lock and key in his office."

They don't talk about that moment in the hallway anymore, but it's still making his blood boil. It is like an invisible wall between them, leaving him helpless.

"All right," he surrenders. " maybe not. Still. She's everywhere. Like. Literally. Look at this shit." He bites the pencil hard. It makes a crunching sound and his sister stares disgusted before leaning over and following the words on his screen as he shifts through tabs. "I mean there's not just the CEO thing. She owns half the buildings in the inner part and there are the Stilts and several construction companies, medical care, now the police are involved too, and she's on board with every person important enough."

"I told you the city is hers." His sister just says. "And it's not like she's not on par with influence out if of town either. This whole thing is important for every Red person in the country, baby brother. You can be damn sure a lot of people don't want us to get a better life."

One day he's having enough. Sneaking out of the stale air and wasting his only break , he presses the button of the lowest level and waits.

The elevator opens with a little pinging sound. Doors sliding open he steps out. It's colder down here, and smells distinctevely of gasoline.

His sister was right. No secret lair. There's just the maintenance, a staircase up and another door.

It leads outside, up another small and half hidden staircase made of concrete. He follows them upstairs and finds himself in the back of the big building. There's a fence. Some dried up dead bushes, frozen in the cold. He follows the line along the fence and finds himself on a little path. To the right the small way leads behind, to the other neighbouring buildings. Big lumps of glass. Modern architecture is the worst. This is ugly, and it stands for things he hates.

A backdoor. Why would someone like her use a way like this?

Maybe to avoid being seen stepping into a front door?

Couldn't she play it off? Someone involved in everything always finds excuses, right?

He decides it worth remembering, maybe spending a night on the laptop again.

There is the easy habit of falling half asleep next to each other. It's a dangerous one, but for now, it's all that matters, curled up against each other, huddled under the blanket.  
After a few times of getting up too soon, they actually just fall asleep, a face in the crook of a neck and arms holding tight.  
There is the slightest crack of grey light in Thomas tiny room when he wakes up, back pressed against the wall because the mattress is too tiny to stretch out with the two of them.

He still wouldn't trade the view of a tousled dark-haired head on his pillow for anything else. Not even a bigger bed.  
He decides not to say anything and use the opportunity.  
It doesn't last as long as he had hoped.

"Morning." he says into the blanket and the shirt, not ready to let go.

"Morning?" Maven whispers back, before snapping up. Or trying as good as one can move with the dead weight of someone still curled up against one. "Did we fall asleep?"

"I really didn't want to wake you. You need the sleep."

"I didn't plan to stay." His voice sounds unpleasant sharp in the grey dimness of a cold day.

"It's weekend, I don't need to work." Thomas whispers, making no effort to get up. Just lingering in the warmth.

"That doesn't change the fact I needed to leave eight hours ago."  
"Lemme check first. If the coast is clear." Thomas says, scrambling to his bare feet.

He slips the jacket on without even really thinking about it.

It's blue. It's not his own. No holes. And it doesn't smell of him. He freezes for a second. Thinking about pulling it off again.

When his eyes move he catches a little gleaming look from blue eyes before they flicker back to the phone in his hand.

There's the smell of coffee and fresh bread in the air. Not a good sign. If the bread girl is back he'll have to wait for the exact right moment to smuggle Maven out.

He takes a second, grabbing the collar and sniffing the familiar and pleasant smell of the shirt's owner. There's some tingling sensation in his stomach. It's not the puppy love he remembers, but also not the heartache.

Good. Sad Thomas was the worst. He always moaned and complained until he was too depressed to get out of the bed.

And puppy love Thomas was an idiot calling his friends out when they wanted to help.

Version 3.0 needs some help, but things could work out. Need to.

Maybe it is time he spills the beans to everyone.

Maybe he should. Talk it out. If Cameron hasn't killed him telling Hannah and Barrow and Farley can't be that bad, can it?

And then he can move on and be cool. Spend time with his family. Maybe even his father.

A very optimistic plan.

You can do it! He pep talks himself, nodding, before finally pulling his nose out of the sweater and slouches over the floor.

He almost stumbles into his older sister on the floor, cup in one hand cellphone in the other.

Thomas swallows, the optimist has run off, middle finger in the air.

Running back is out of question. That'd be too loud. Maybe slow retreat. Or running to the bathroom and wait until she's gone. He regrets not having his phone. He hopes Maven stays safely put in his own bedroom.

She looks up and he lost the chance.

There's a red alarm bell ringing in his head.

"Tommy, it's your free day and you are out of bed before dinner?" His sister stares at him in open surprise. "I am impressed."

"That's because it's such a beautiful day." He's trapped in his own home.

"And it's not because you're having someone over."

"Of course not. " He answers way too loud. "Why would I have someone over?"

"I saw the shoes when I came home. And you didn't t do the dishes. For two people." she takes a sip from her cup. _Damn ninja sisters and their very perceptive observations._ "Try to be subtle, baby brother."

"Haha," Thomas makes and doesn't look her in the eyes. He sounds like he's about to choke.

"Someone I know?"

Now would be a good moment to just spill the beans. He has to start somewhere, doesn't he?

He thinks of Cameron's sour face giving him a reprieve. He can't even look his sister in the eyes.

"Nooo, I mean, yes, but, not like super close."

"Finally told your crush how you feel, didn't you?"

Easy to put her on a wrong track and just not talk about it at all.

"Eh..kind of. It's complicated, Hanni, please don't ask."

There are other things, easier. And more important.

"Wait," something in her face scrumbles and falls when she looks at the jacket. "You hate blue. You never wear it. You don't even like drawing with it."

"It's not mine." He tries and when he sees her head almost explode he knows it's the wrong thing.

"Is he still in there?" she asks and points into the supposed direction of his room.

Her hand hits the door hard.

"Hello, Hannah," Maven sounds polite, isn't that good? Thomas wants to bury himself under his blanket and never come out.

What was that lumberjack idea he had? He'd really rock the man bun, wouldn't he?

"You." she says and if she was using one of the many slurs of the Cameron Cole dictionary, it wouldn't have been more of an actual insult. "You stabbed good people in the back and broke my brother's heart."

Living in the woods, never see another person...

"Things can change, especially in times like this."

"Sure." She mocks before her eyes lock Thomas in deadly precision of lasers ready to burn a hole in his brain. "Are you an idiot? What happened the last time? Did you forget how much of a wreck you were Thomas?"

"I can assure you-" Maven starts but gets cut off when she whips her hands up.

"I am NOT talking to you, so shut it." She snaps. Then her force concentrates on him and he feels like a little child again, looking up in her face because he messed something up and she has to cover for him again and take the blame. She got in trouble with Mom and Dad often enough because she protected him.

"He is responsible for the deaths of people. You knew some of them. And some are in prison or still under warranty." Her finger pokes a hole in the air in front of them. "And let's not forget he told the world his brother is a piece of shit. And that you are a stalker, druggie, and a joke!"

"He'll fix it," he looks over to a very silent Maven. "You'll fix it. It takes time. All of it. And yeah I am still pissed about a lot of stuff."

"There's nothing that can fix death." She shakes her head and he feels the disappointment seep into his bones. "And just because you promise something doesn't mean something changes."

"Calm down, please, bread girl, it's cool. I am superfine this time." He tries to disarm her. "We have some rules to improve shit."

"See? " Maven says, a little dry. "superfine."

Now she's positively angry. "Don't try to creep under my brother's skin again. He was over you!"

"Dear Hannah," Maven looks very diplomatic. He doesn't mean a word. There's something twitching around his eyes for a moment. "I appreciate your concern. It is uncalled for. And your brother is old enough to make decisions for himself."

"Gee, thanks," Thomas notes somewhere between mildly frustrated and terrified.

"You leave my apartment and never," her nostrils flare. "never come back."

"It's my home too!" Thomas protests but it seems as always, it will be unheard.

" Actually no."

 _Well_ _there it comes, I asked for it_ , he wants to say but huffs only in anticipation of the words that will come out with the slightest bit of spite. Who can he fool anymore.

"Thomas asked me to move in. Maybe I'll take the offer."

"You offered what?" she isn't yelling. It's more disbelief.

" You do?" Thomas asks. "Good on you."

"If he moves in," Hannah promises. "I move out."

"Fine." Thomas gives it his best fuck it attitude. "I had hoped you'd understand, cause it is a little more iffy than Maven makes it, maybe just listen, cause a lot has happened, but if you wanna go back to Mom and Dad, do it. Or maybe I should leave. You pay most in the end."

"That's not fair," she bristles. "I always tried to be on your side. I love you, Tommy, so please-"

"Yeah, I get it." He takes a deep breath.

"I-" She turns away, with a last glance how they lean in the door, hunched together, not quite touching, but might as well. One of them shifts, the other follows the motion.

"We'll talk later. I need to take a very long, long walk."

He watches her turn her back and grabbing her jacket. There's a sour taste in his mouth.

"She's not like that usually."

"Next time you ask someone to move in with you, " Something shines through a crack of the calm facade in Maven's face. "Make sure the person is welcome."

"She probably likes the other guy I am dating more." Thomas jokes, shrugging.

"The other guy?" Maven tilts his head. "Tell me more, please."

"Yes, he's ah, cool. And he doesn't steal my blanket and he doesn't stare at me when I sneeze like I just turned into a gremlin."

"You make that face when you sneeze." The answer is so thoughtful it makes him laugh, leaning forward.

He shouldn't do this at all. He still reaches over and presses his lips against Mavens. There's a sharp breath. A sun erupts in his chest at the sound.

To his surprise there's not even the slightest pause before hands wander over his shoulder, fingers clawing into his collar. Thomas' hands push up searching. Leaving traces, only to find themselves tangled in dark strands of hair in the end, letting it slip through his fingers.

He smiles a little into the kiss, knowing he wouldn't stop for the world.

His breath is heavy when he stops, fingers brushing over hair, tracing the shell of an ear and finding rest around the sharp line of a cheekbone.

There's the soft hesitating brush of two noses, something so gentle he supposes it can't be real.

"You should go." Is all he can say, whispering the words into the touch.

"I know." Is the only answer he gets before a brow presses against his.

Thomas presses his eyes closed shut to keep the sadness inside. He prepares himself for the breakdown. Always comes.

"I don't want you to," he says, not able to let go. So much to the casual touching rule. "I want this to be right, you know?"

"Yes, I know."

The next thing he knows they are kissing again, electricity buzzing through Thomas' veins like a street light. His back hits the wall hard. Thomas snorts before he's silenced again. His hands wander down, creeping under Maven's shirt.

"Okay," he decides to pry himself away, hands retreating, missing the warmth of the skin already. "Okay, this is-sorry."

For a moment it's like they are two strangers in a very uncomfortable situation, not looking at each other.

"I should get ready. I have places to be."

"Places to be!" Thomas exclaims, clearing his throat. "See you tomorrow?" He asks, hopeful.

"I'll stop by."

"Cool," Thomas gives a small wave with his hand.

"Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"My jacket."

"Oh."

He slips out of it as fast as he can, handing over a tangled mess.

"You know she will talk about this to someone."

Thomas sighs. "Maybe it's time to come clean. You too."  
This will get ugly.


	13. Care

"Maybe it's a secret tunnel. Or some sort of room behind the maintenance." Thomas suggests, leaning back on the seat. White light dimly shines down, showing the dirty floor and the muddy boots of the passengers. He's glad he has a seat.

Cameron is very silent next to him, crooked fingers curled into a fist.

"She's in cahoots with so many people there ought to be some weird reason why she hangs around the building."

She's still not answering and he decides to put down his tinfoil hat and be a better friend again.

"What happened to the stick I gave you?" He asks, leaning over.

"I looked through it. Wasn't only about my brother . So I gave it to other people. Thought you knew about it."

"If you haven't realized, I avoid coming too close to Farley or Lightning. " He doesn't need to say the obvious. That he still hasn't managed to say anything because he is afraid they will never talk to him again. Because he has lost his friends once and now he will probably loose them forever if he can't convince people he isn't some sort of disappointment or turncoat. It gnaws on him and strips away the little confidence he has left.

"Yeah I know. But you are back with that toad. He should know all about it."

Thomas looks out of the window. Her protective side draws right back in when she gives his shoulder a nudge.

"Did he do anything?"

"We haven't talked for a while."

Not that he doesn't try. He lets the phone ring for an eternity. Almost feels like that time Maven ducked for weeks. Thomas knows his share about avoiding contact. He hates it.

 _ **Busy.**_

Is the only answer he receives. One single word.

Not this again, Thomas thinks.

 **Wanna come over later?**

 _ **I can't.**_

And here he had hoped there wouldn't be days like this. At least he's not consequently ignoring Thomas or backing out again. Progress, a little at a time. Baby steps for the cowards.

"Start looking at your phone again and being mushy, asshat. I snap it in half." Cameron promises. Looking at her, he knows it's true.

" Am not mushy. Things are different now." He smiles at her and can't believe that it's true for a moment.

"You say that, but you look like you are about to cry."

"Nah," he leans his head against the cool glass. For a while he watches the world rush by knowing there is a pair of eyes staring at his face. "Did I tell you," he tries to change the subject. "Was asked to put a girlfriend's name on someone. I couldn't do it."

"Not so special. But stupid."

Thomas agrees. He is glad he kept all of his own tattoos insiders. Ambiguous images and lines that could mean something else entirely. A bionic arm, telling the story of a sharpie on a wrist, a flame as a reminder how not to burn. As much as he cares he'd never wear a name on his skin.

"He wanted it on a very special place. The O in her name. Well..." He snickers.

Cameron makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat.

The train ride is surprisingly calm for the rest of the time. No one really speaks much. People are bend and hunched. Tired and stressed.

They both walk along silently, hopping out, passing grim looking police and cameras.

No wonder the Barrows don't visit their family too often. It's not only that the place reeks of the misery. That's what it always did. But it feels more tense now and even less friendly. Even more cut off from the rest of the world.

He knows the streets so well he doesn't need to look, trying to ask about that usb stick. He's not getting much out of her.

Last summer he opened the door in the middle of the night with a bag in tow and swore never to return. Now he knocks without hesitation. His mother takes two breaths to answer.

"Hey," Thomas greets her. He almost forgot how warm she feels, and how her arms squeeze him careful almost like she wants to check if he's really there. It makes him a little ashamed. She smells like always. The soft fabric of her sweater brushes his face when he leans forward and just squeezes her back. Because that's what she deserves. Some son who cares enough.

"Good to see you," She says when they part, grabbing his face. He chuckles seeing her dark eyes sliding over his form. "You're thin, Tommy. Do you eat?"

"All the time." He swears before her eyes take in Cameron beside him. "Remember Cameron?"

There's even more grey in her hair, it shines in the light, like the cob webs in the late summer. Silver white strings drawn into hazel.

"I am old, " she gives his cheek a last pat before letting go. "But not senile. Of course I remember her."

She steps out of the doorway. "Come on in. It's cold and I am sure Ida will be happy to see you."

"You're not that old," he tries to smile it away.

"You always were an awful liar, Thomas E-"

"Not my middle name." Thomas cuts her off with two hands flying through the air.

"He has a middle name?" Cameron looks like a hyena that wants to sink its teeth in a tasty piece of meat.

"Oh , he has." Thomas mother assures her.

"How's the little squishy?" Thomas asks, slipping out of his shoes and trying to change the subject.

" Growing. Going to school. Drawing. " His mother throws over the longest look in history before she tries to play it down with a joke. "She'll soon be a better artist than you."

"Sure Dad's really happy bout that." Thomas mutters and slips out of his jacket. He takes in the familiar sight of the small house. The worn out interior, scratched and old , with different stains from all the children. Still in good shape, because someone cares to keep them that way. He remembers jumping on the chairs and couch as a child. There's pencil markings on the doorframe , different names attached to different markings. Ida, Thomas, Hannah, the markings reach higher with each passing year. And with each year the gap in height and personality has grown so large Thomas felt disconnected enough to run away and live on the street.

"Kids draw." she shrugs. "Last time I met you, you had that ugly cut on your head," Thomas mother says to Cameron and he decides to stroll around, giving them some time.

Nothing really has changed, just as expected. The floor still creaks under his steps, and there's still the same pictures on the wall. Embarrassing images of your now grown up children, now lined up and for everyone to see. There's little Hannah with a pony, Thomas in tow , grinning. They show a lot of missing teeth and the sun has tanned and freckled their skin. There's his parents on their wedding day. And a lot of images of Hannah and Ida. Not so much of growing up Thomas. He doesn't blame them. He looked awful in puberty and is glad there is not more of it. Only one, with proud Hannah graduating and him sulking around dressed in black, with too long hair and dirty boots. His father wanted him to clean up but all Thomas did was making some dramatic face and flip him off before being a moody mess that pretended not to care.

He cringes a little looking at the picture.

Something moves over the floorboards behind him. When he looks around he sees his little sister, standing in the doorway to her room. If someone slaughtered a unicorn and a fairy and poured it over her, she could not be more pink or sparkling.

"Hey Squishy," he waves at her. Only a few months have passed and she has grown again.

"I am not squishy," she clarifies with grace and pride. "I am a fairy princess."

"Of course you are. " He compliments and bows as exaggerated as he can. "Is her magnificence willing to give me a hug?"

"You're silly." She says , toothy grin and sparkling skirt in tow when she crushes his ribcage with her tiny arms.

"Always was," he huffs. "I brought my best friend. The one that hit me last time, remember?"

"The pretty one."

"Yeah." He smiles and touches her head before she takes the lead, swinging braid and bare feet.

He finds himself drawn into the kitchen, into the warmth. Since half of the small house is waste open space functioning as kitchen and living room, he can overlook the small table and the couch he used to jump on as a kid.

The cupboards creak the same as the floorboards. The house breathes and huffs. It lives along the inhabitants.

The only new thing is a pot of flowers , small and white , as the sky hidden behind clouds outside the window.

His mother choses to accompany him at his spot.

"You doing alright?" He asks, taking her hand. " Police must be rough around the place."

"No one bothers us old folk." She reassures him, thin fingers holding onto his. When did my mother turn old? He wonders. Somewhere in his head she is always ten years younger, not so fragile. "They make sure we know our place and let us live the rest of the time. We have little fire left, Thomas. Most people are just trying to get through the day here."

Like they always did. Like they will until the day they die.

"Your sister says you have someone."

He sighs deeply. "Do we need to talk about it?"

Mother, spare me, his eyes beg. Not that it helps.

He watches her roll up her sleeves with practice, moving around the small kitchen, navigating blind.

"Will I meet that boyfriend of yours?"

"I don't think that's a good idea." He tries to imagine Maven next to him on the couch. It doesn't work. Stings a little.

"You bring Cameron over . So why not?"

"Because it's complicated. We have some bad history. And this is still fresh. Trying to work it out. Everyone has a problem with him. And I kinda understand that. He can be awful. Even Hannah hates his guts." He leans on the counter and watches his little sister drawing, occasionally looking up to Cameron with some sort of admiration it's making him want to laugh.

"And he's... " Thomas scratches his neck. "He's _silver_."

If this was his father he knows, there'd be an explosion. _Always trying to provoke people, Thomas._

He's not quite sure how his mother will handle that information. She's silent for a while and he fears the next wave of disappointment.

"Do you sleep with him?" She asks out of the blue, pulling a bowl out of a shelf.

"Mom," Thomas shakes his head in embarrassment. "I am not going to answer that."

"But you love him."

He doesn't need to answer. She reads the way he sighs and looks up. Her hands form a lump of dough in the bowl.

"Love doesn't fix things. Or people." He decides to say.

Flour flurries through the air when she slaps the dough around. There's something meditating in the way her hands work. He always liked watching her. She's calm. It ripples through his nervousness.

"It is not supposed to do that. But that doesn't make it worthless."

Things tend to turn down the complicated route so often. Watching someone create something simple but satisfying like bread is helpful. It helps to remember that there's the small things you can look after.

"Love is patient," she says, and her hand smears flour over his cheek when she touches it.

"Yeah you have three children, you ought to say that." he mutters, using his sleeve to swipe the flour away.

"True," she laughs and he is reminded of countless days in the sunshine, summer, with his siblings and the river. There are wrinkles around her eyes. "But I learned that before I had you. When I met your father, I was the complicated one. I told him I would never, ever love him, and he could just bugger off."

"What?" He snorts. "You never told me that! I thought it was love at first sight!"

"I was actually madly in love with Daniel Barrow." she shrugs. "Not that anything ever came out of it. And I am glad it didn't. We laugh about it today. But your father was definitely not in my sight. He was a brute bragging about going to war."

Cameron barks something and he looks over to find his sister laughing, a crooked teeth gap and a braid flying. A marker rolls down the table. When Cameron turns her head he sees Ida has drawn a heart on her cheek.

Thomas snorts.

"Oh Mom," he rips his glare from his sister and nudges her side gently. "Spilling the juicy stuff just now. Tell me more. Did you ditch Dad? Were you mean?"

"I trampled all over his heart." she smiles down at her hands, cleaning the fingers over the sink, setting the bowl aside. "I wasn't about to settle for him. It took some years for him to convince me otherwise. But he was always there when I had a bad time, so you see. Love can be patient."

 _Love can be patient._

As if he's anything but. He really tries.

"I want things to be good. Like...normal. Like...meeting with friends and eating together and not being afraid . But with all this shit going on, I don't know how to power through some days." For a moment he wants to cry, taking deep breaths. "And what if it doesn't work out again? I mean, not all is bad. But-" _You are not enough. You are fine. You are going to get hurt._ Hard to find the right answer in all this things that twirl and dance in his head. "I think I have to choose. And I don't want to do that. "

"That is just how life works, " his mother says. " Sometimes there's a bad day. Or a bad week. Sometimes life isn't easy ."

 _Something good every once in a while. Something nice to make one smile. Something warm to fend off the cold. Soon enough-_

He can't finish the nonsense rhyme. Instead he hugs himself. His mother is still smiling.

"Everyone is scared once in a while, Thomas." She offers. "You don't think I wasn't ever afraid? I am scared for you and your sisters half the time, and worry about your father the other half. His heart isn't what it used to be."

"Sorry. For everything." He apologizes. "I suck at living, Mom. I try to be a good person, but I don't feel like it most days. That's why I don't come around. That and eh, well, Dad hates me."

"Your father doesn't hate you."

People keep telling him that. Hard to believe, really.

Their dark eyes meet , but he can't hold her look for very long before turning away.

"I think I need to save Cameron before Ida turns her into a living canvas."

"That girl doesn't need saving." His mother disagrees. When he still tries to leave her stern voice stops him. "And you tell me at least that boy's name if you don't want to bring him over."

"I hate when you play your authority card." He mumbles and crosses his arms again.

* * *

"Tim, are you listening?" a voice asks him. He fazes back into the present, staring at the paper in his hand, the one with the tattoo. A phone rings behind him.

"What?" he asks but finds it hard to follow, staring at the elevator going down. There's a familiar whiff of too sweet perfume in the air. It tastes rotten on his tongue.

"Where's your head?" His coworker mocks.

"Not here. And also, my name is Thomas." He says with force and shakes his head. "Not that you care."

He spends too much time in that particular level of the building, wasting precious breaks. Staring at the doors and the flickering neon lights. Not eating but just staring intensely , like the backdoor leading out of the building can give him any answer. It is silly. Probably people are right. HesH too caught up to see how little sense it makes. That is why he decides to stop, turning to the elevator and trying to stop.

There's the clicking of heels and when he turns around he's faced with Elara. With her hair up and the dark collar of her coat standing along her cheekbones, with her straight body telling a story of confidence and arrogance, she's like a bird of prey. Ready to swoop down and catch a rabbit between her claws.

"Thomas," she greets and it's like acid in the back of his head. "You come down here quite often, I noticed. Looking for something special, my dear boy?"

"I just found what I was looking for." He reassures her.

"Really? How fortunate. I suppose every dog has its day. " She takes a single step towards him and he finds his legs twitching to move away from her. "Take a walk with me. The air is terrible."

"We could use the backdoor." He dares to say . He hoped for something in her face but she's not impressed a bit.

"Watch where you step, " she says. Merely another thread disguised as a warning, he's sure. "Stairs can be so slippery . We wouldn't want you to get hurt."

 _As if you care if I get hurt._

His body almost physically refuses to follow her up the small stairs and through the metal door.

"I was under the impression you had realised where you belong."

"I am right where I belong." He says , crossing his arms and shrugging off the cold.

The world is frozen and death around them. Cold steel, mirroring glass. Dead bushes rustling in a soft breeze raking ivy fingers over his neck. "But perhaps I was wrong."

He can't stop himself from snorting in disbelief.

"My son obviously still has a weak spot for you. Or should I say again, after that dilemma with the little lightning girl."

He scratches his cheek to stop himself from making a face.

"Yeah, I know all about that."

"A waste of his time."

 _Sticks and stones can break my bones, or how is the saying?_ Well , if it doesn't sting at least. There's not one person in the world he wants to be gone more than her. He'd rather spent time with his own father. And that means something.

"Do you just wanna threaten and insult me? Cause I don't need you to do that."

She doesn't answer. Instead she just walks along, very slow, like she is lost in thought.

Some insult hurled about his upbringing, a threat , that is all he expects. Instead she takes a moment to look at him, and he doesn't like it at all. It feels like she can see right into his brain, scanning his every thought and looking for a weak spot.

No one gets this much influence and rises that high without some talents, and yes, he hates her, downright, feeling the need to spit like angry Barrow uses to do sometimes. Stone cold , but dangerous. He doesn't take Cals words too lightly.

It took a long time to free himself from that one talk they had. Her words are well chosen and they cut too deep, too close to the truth.

"If I wanted to insult you, my dear boy, I would just keep ignoring your mere existence."

"Then why talk to me at all?" he asks. "To make sure I know how much you despise me? To check if I could get in your way? Is this your version of a motherly talk about your precious only child?" He scoffs.

"We already had that talk, a long time ago. You didn't listen very much then."

 _And we know your words didn't leave me for the longest time, and you had no right to say them._

 _"_ Yes, you warned me." He scoffs.

"I won't do so again." She promises.

"I would invite you sometime, but I fear you wouldn't take my offer." Her blue eyes are bright in the light. "And also, we are so busy, there'd be little time left _to look after your well-being._ "

* * *

Another day comes and goes and if Thomas felt like a loner before he is downright isolated now.

A soft shower of snowflakes starts falling down. It's early this year. He sits on the windowsill and watches. The snowflakes melt on the glass, leaving trails of water. Like tears.

It's late when the door rings and he slouches over, blanket in tow.

There are snowflakes stuck in Maven's hood , hiding his hair, on his coat , slowly melting in the warmth that cannot quite keep Thomas from shivering. The house isn't in very good condition, never was. It's always too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter.

How curious that the roles are swapped this winter. Now that he has a place to go and Maven seemingly isn't willing to stay where he is supposed to.

"I thought you ditched me again." Thomas mutters. "Never do that again."

"I said I was busy." Comes the low answer. There's little left of the dry humour and dancing blue eyes right now. He's as unforgiving and cool as the chill that runs over Thomas spine standing in the open door.

"Now you're here." He states the obvious. "Are you hurt? Did something happen? You don't look too great."

"No." Maven shakes the snow of his head, pulling his hood down and putting his coat on the hook next to the door that Thomas never uses. " It's just a headache."

By now it feels like he looks into a mirror and watches himself. It's uncanny.

"You are lying."

He frowns only slightly before hiding most of whatever is bottling up inside. "Leave it, Thomas."

"Eh," he says with too much spite and regrets it. "I am allergic to your blank face."

"Are you listening to me?" he snaps and Thomas flinches back. "I don't want to talk about it. So stop."

"Look, last year you took care of me. See it as returning the favour, pretty boy, because you look like shit and if you disappear again, I don't know what to do, " He's not willing to break into that ugly hissy fit again, insults and unspoken accusations thrown around. No thanks. "You know I'm not an enemy. So please don't act like that."

"Old habits die hard."

"Old habits stink," he whispers, stepping a little closer and brushing his fingers over a strand of Maven's dark hair. "Let's not go there."

Maven's hand is pale against his own. "Can I stay the night?"

"Why do you even ask." Thomas smiles a little looking over.

A pleasant fire creeps into his stomach when lips creep over the flames embedded in his skin, knuckle to the back of his hand.


	14. A foot in a puddle

**(Updated because I accidentally posted my draft instead of the finished version. Sorry)**

* * *

"Thomas _Eleanor_ ," Cameron says triumphantly on the phone.

"No." Thomas shakes his head even though through the phone no one can see. He's all alone in the flat.

"Thomas _Elizabeth_." She guesses again.

"Nope. Not my middle name." He scoffs, slurping on the coffee in his hand, almost burning his tongue.

"But is it a girl's name. Why would you not tell me otherwise?"

"It is not a girl's name." He appreciates her try to cheer him up. "And I just don't like it. That's the only reason I never tell anyone."

"Yeah, but you don't like your last name because you say it sounds stupid and Thomas because you think it is a boring fart. Why the middle name?"

"Cookie, you will never, ever guess correctly. Didn't you ask my mother?"

"She wouldn't tell me. She said if things go down it's the only real thing that could blackmail you. Now I know where your bad humor comes from."

"Leave my poor mother out of it. It's old people humor. Lightning always said-" He stutters over his breath, feeling his energy drain out if his body.

"How did it go?"

He takes another sip, tasting the bitter taste and letting it roll down his throat for a while before answering.

"Well, let's say I was glad we weren't alone. Warren and Cal were there. I thought she would fling me out of a window. Not like we yelled at each other but...she was hurt." He thinks of the expression on her face. She always kept most of it hidden. Even if he persuaded her to talk to him, spill some part of her problems. Going through alone with it, not willing to budge. Stubborn, almost. Like no one could help, so why would he try? But he liked to think he got at least partly into her. But that face she made has nullified any other friendly moment. Because he knew she would feel betrayed. "And I don't blame her. I lied to her for weeks. And got close to her using that link we had through Maven to connect."

Throwing stones in a river, yelling absurd insults. Talking about normal stuff to try and find a connection back to some sort of normality. Drinking at a broken hearts club.

All that gone.

"Told you. Pissing on people."

He sighs, leaning his head against the cool table.

"And I think she's got beef with Cal too. Couldn't keep my mouth shut about how I made them meet up. Not like they are running over a field under a rainbow making flower crowns. I'm not sure they ever talked again. But. You know. I didn't think it through. It wasn't my call to make."

She mutters something that sounds like a great addition to her usual names for him. Not that she's particularly fond of Cal. She's too loyal to leave him over it. But that doesn't mean she's not willing to tell him what a moron he is. Her rudeness and honesty are precious. They keep him grounded.

"I don't think she will talk to me again. Like...ever."

"And Farley?"

"I'm stalling that one. Just a little." Not like he needs to lose all of his friends in one day. Every day one is a better quote, isn't it?

"Where's your incredible boyfriend?" The question reeks of disgust.

"He's got therapy. That's more important. Maybe I'll pick him up later. Cookie?"

"Yeah, asshat?"

"You don't think she'll be as pissed as Lightning, do you? I mean, what's the worst that can happen?"

"She could shoot you. She has a gun. And good aim." That is far from helpful. But what did he expect? She doesn't cuddle him. Not when it comes to the tired discussion about his love life. "Heard she's moody too. Don't blame her. Hiding is shit."

* * *

He isn't feeling well, dragging himself through the muddy mess of the streets. There are puddles of half-molten snow and rain. He's freezing, like always. His body isn't made for winter. A summer child, barefoot. Enjoying the smell of sunscreen over the one of a stale pine tree.

And the sight of water spraying around his face jumping in the river over the dust of drizzling cold water raining in cascades down and seeping through his clothes to make him shiver.

He finds himself senselessly skipping through the music he doesn't enjoy. Just to block out the noise. It doesn't stop the pull of the sadness that weighs him down.

He can't get over the way she looked at him. He could have as well stabbed Barrow in the back. After everything that happened, he can't help but feel guilty.

Talking about it didn't help. It only made it worse.

The train station is clogged with people. He never liked crowds very much. This one is like a crop of nervous animals. Like horses, they want to flee. They want to be the first to leave. And so they push and pull and shove. They use their elbows while they make nervous puffs and their tired eyes glide over their surroundings hastily. Best not look at other people too long.

He doesn't try to push back. He lets them elbow. He lets them run. Someone rams him hard. He stumbles a little and can only roll his eyes.

They think when they get home they will be safe. Up until they step out in the morning again.

There's barely a car on the street. Not in this part of town.

He wonders how it is up to the hills and uptown. When he gets to work in the morning, there are just the occasional fancy big cars.

Walking down the row of houses, he hugs himself when wind creeps under his coat. It's almost too thin for this weather.

The room is empty sans the woman working on her computer.

"Hey," he leans over the counter, next to the flowers. "I came to pick my boyfriend up. This tall-" he waves his fingers around higher than himself. "Dark hair, really pretty boy, blue eyes. Makes a frowning face often and always wears his headphones."

"I know who you mean." She says, smiling a little. Well, a good sign at least someone reciprocates his try to smile through miserable weather and sodding poor train rides. Maybe it's just because she sees how red his cheeks are from the cold and feels sorry for him. That or she's simply professional enough.

"But he's not here?" She sounds sincerely sorry as his face falls.

"Did I miss him?" Thomas asks disappointed. He should have written a text or called. With the traffic situation and the always so busy Elara hanging around, planning surprises isn't that easy. Not that Maven is super fond of surprises anyway. Goes against the perfectly planned schedules that are wired through his life. "When did he leave?"

"He wasn't here today." She shakes her head slightly. "So please tell him if he misses another appointment-"

"Oh." He cuts her off. "I mean yeah, I will tell him. Thanks. Have a nice day."

A long sharp breath.

Then he simply trots back and the shoving begins again. A mechanical voice in the station announces that every train until the next morning is canceled. Cutting off the public transportation. How nice.

What's next? Backstep into times when people were cattle? Not that they ever stepped much out of it. Still.

He gets up too late in the morning. Is late at work. Almost gets fired.

His sister avoids looking in his direction. Even when she steps over and hands him her lunch because he didn't bring anything she's not trying to hold eye contact.

The sky is grey.

On his way home he steps into a puddle of dirty snow water. It soaks through his shoe, up his socks and pants right to his ankle.

"Well, shit," Thomas mutters.

Sometimes, his mother said, there's a bad day. Or a bad week. He could live without that.

There used to be a graffiti over the wall. Something his hands drew and his brain invented. He thinks of the last time he actually tried to help his friends in any way. Instead, all he thinks of are nights spend in front of a flickering screen looking at Elara. Or waiting for a call to pick up Maven.

Not that it is important anymore.

There used to be a graffiti, an image of a girl hidden behind bars. They covered it up poorly months ago. Now someone has smeared a bad tag on the same spot. A racial slur, paired with a skull. It's a little like his life. Losing things and trying to replace them.

Maybe it's just fair he can't replace them.

* * *

 **I miss you.**

 _Do you really, Mave?_

Not another answer.

He throws the phone on his pillow and buries himself beneath his blankets.

* * *

A phone rings shrilly. Penetrating his very strained nerves. He almost cuts himself on the paperwork he carries around. A bundle so big one could hit someone in the head.

It's only slowly getting thinner.

He isn't really surprised to wander along the hallway and find Elara leaving the elevator. She doesn't glance as much at him. He's fine with that. He's in the mood for a fight and he shouldn't fight with someone out of his league.

It gets worse when he sees a very familiar hunched back behind her.

Thomas watches them disappear for some while. He hangs around, with the papers crumbling in his hands instead of doing anything productive.

Waiting for the right moment to pass Maven alone.

He gets a shot right in front of the bathroom.

Maven walks right past him. Thomas huffs in disbelief.

That makes him stop, slowly turning around.

There's a stain on his sleeve because he wears the same shirt as yesterday and didn't care. His eyes study the stain instead of looking in his face.

"You gonna ignore me?" Thomas asks.

"I am not ignoring you." That stain must be fascinating." I answered your texts as soon as I could and would have called."

"Truth pact. How was therapy?"

No answer isn't necessarily a lie.

It still tells him all he needs to know.

"I thought you wanted this, dude."

" People don't always get what they want."

Thomas chokes out a humorless laugh.

He throws the papers into the air.

They sail down slowly and spread around them. "Look. It's bullshit confetti."

"I can explain things later." Maven offers. He feels the anger and impatience rippling through them.

"Yeah, always later."

There's the clicking of heels and a very familiar smell in his nose that makes it crinkle.

"I wondered what took you so long." She says very friendly. "Thomas, it seems you dropped something."

"So kind of you to tell me, Ma'am." He presses the words out of his throat.

Seeing them together always reminds him that they're so very similar in looks. The same frame, that sharp structure of their faces. They're even in matching colors.

There's something nervous and twitching hidden behind a face that couldn't seem to care less.

"I was just telling Thomas that I was occupied tomorrow. I wouldn't want to miss the party."

"Yes, wouldn't want to interrupt anything important," Thomas says.

Her heel buries right into a piece of paper below her feet. "I'm sure you wouldn't."

He stops himself from grimacing. "You said tho, you wanted to invite me sometime."

For the slightest of moments, there's some horror at the image of Thomas prancing around at her high and mighty power play. He actually enjoys tickling any kind of reaction out of her.

Then she smiles at him. " Are you suggesting to accompany us, my dear boy?"

"No." Maven says. "Most certainly not."

"Why not." Thomas ignores him. "I haven't been on any festivity or party ever since the birthday party my sister threw in kindergarten." What can be worse than twelve toddlers running amok and unleashing hell?

"Well then. I am sure Maven will pick you up on time and tell you the details."

And with that, he's left alone with the paper spread on the floor. Someone actually has the gall to step over it as he leans down and starts picking it up. Another leaves a footprint on one of the pages and ignores his entire existence.

"You lost something." A friendly voice says behind him.

"Yeah, no shit." He mutters and feels a little bad when someone leans down next to him. Caramel smooth skin and long lashes in an unfamiliar pretty girl face, surrounded by straight black hair.

When she turns around he sees the back of her blouse is slightly transparent. Enough to let anyone that's not entirely blind see the whirlwind of ink, cascading in forms of water down her back.

Thomas is certainly staring. "Nice." He says before he can stop himself.

She stops again, giving him a look out of grey eyes. Not the mean kind. Still.

"The tattoos. I mean the tattoos." He hurries to throw behind. He stares down at the flames that seem amateurish in comparison to the artwork on her body.

"Thanks."

He didn't expect a nice word without any ill-meaning from any silver person today. Nice change to what just has gone down.

"You don't work here, do you?" He dares to ask.

"No." She says calmly. " I am not from around here."

"Good for you." He mumbles, taking the stack of paper out of her hand. "And thank you. Seriously."

* * *

"Open the door, Thomas." Farley's hard face says through the crack of the door. She doesn't have to throw herself against the frame. She just waits. It's some small wonder she didn't bring Shade along. But oh well, losing one friend a day, right?

"Are you sure you are not going to punch me?" Thomas asks mildly terrified.

"I will not." Farley just says. There's disappointment etched into her face. That's worse than any punch in the gut could ever be.

Something about her face throws him off. He can't really pin it down. It's not curve of her neck or her cheeks. It's not really visible. She looks like always. But at the same time not at all. It is confusing.

"So we talk?" He wants to make sure. He tries to smile. Not that anyone cares.

"That seems overdue."

"Sure." He can only agree, sliding the chain back and letting her in. Her eyes scan the place like she expects someone to jump out of his fridge.

Not that he blames her. He remembers her tired face when he picked her off the police station. The blood on their clothes and the tired faces.

Now no one talks about Tristan or Walsh anymore. They are just two names in the list of casualties.

But he knows she didn't forget.

She wears a trench coat and boots, with a splash of red, because that's just how the Captain rolls. Some things don't really change. He looks at the holes in his jeans and now he genuinely smiles at her. Not only some mild try.

This year has been a wild ride. Going from homeless and helpless to cleaning up, trying to accomplish anything. Loosing and kicking, not willing to give up. And she's been there all this time. Never really pressing matters. But always there. Some force to reckon with.

A force he's afraid to turn against him. A force he is afraid to lose.

"I guess I don't have to tell you how daft you are." She opens the conversation.

"No Mom." He jokes and her eyebrows twitch in reaction.

"Do you know why I never told you any of the plans that were made?" She asks.

"Cause I am like a wet towel?" He jokes miserable. He feels like her sharp look will peel off his skin from his face.

"Because all you ever do is run." This feels not good. It itches and irks under his skin. " Running away. Or running back, trying to hold on to things you can't leave behind. Running is the reason we met and it is the reason you joined in. And running is the reason you are back with Maven Calore. "

No denying that. It hits the last nail in his coffin.

"So you don't trust me." He tries to smile again. It's alright, the smile says. I can take it. Just tell me the truth.

"If I didn't, I wouldn't tell you my whereabouts. I wouldn't have visited today. And I sure as hell wouldn't care. You aren't that awful of a person, Thomas."

"Thanks, I guess." He presses the words out with his last real breath of air.

"But I don't trust him. I should never have in the first place. And I will not repeat my mistakes."

"Diana, " he looks at her hand, outstretched on the scratched table. "it's not like that. This is... it's different."

It is what he tells people all the time. Repeating himself.

It's different. He really tries.

"You're officially out of everything."

"For the best, probably." He scratches his chin, uncomfortable. "We still friends? You're my weird foster mom."

Her flat hand on the table moves away. She gets up.

"Do the Thomas maneuver again and I won't hesitate to turn my back."

"What's the Thomas maneuver?" he asks confused.

He doesn't get an answer.

* * *

 ** _[AN] Thank you for the continued support, Daisey! I adore those comments. Since I can't PM you, I'll try to answer here._**

 ** _I really wanted to write some positive family, I took a while to come up with how to handle it. But I mentioned them soo much I HAD to throw it in! Hey, Thomas middle name is a reoccurring question. And don't worry we will handle this relationship between them. I don't plan on making it easy but no more breakups. I want something good too Q_Q_**

 ** _I am a happy flopping author when you tell me my writing is good. I will try to do my best and keep it up!_**


	15. Choice of attire

The thought creeps under his skin and it grows like a tumour the whole day until finally, in the middle of the night , he tosses and turns around in his bed. The pillows that build a castle over his head can't hold off the doubts and questions.

 _What the hell did I do? Tagging along somewhere Elara goes?_

 _What did I think?_

 _Just to piss people off again? Or because I was mad at Maven?_

Then he thinks of Farley, and that he didn't tell her a thing about going to... whatever that will be. Maybe it's for the best. She'd think he's trying to impress her. Like he tried so many times. He took a gun to make a good impression. He mauled himself pretty bad just to leave a good impression with Fish Boy and Lightning. And how did that work out?

The gun still rests hidden in the drawer and he'd be damned to go near it.

Maybe he should give it back. But then he'd have to carry it through town. And people like him get shot even if they just so much twitch with their hands in their pockets. A boy got shot for his cellphone. That's too hot. That one night in jail still burns with the smell of sweat, piss and blood in his nose. No need to repeat it.

No, the gun stays and he won't say a word to her or Shade. If they knew they'd tan his hide for idiocrazy.

Not that that wouldn't be justified. Everyone taking a swing is welcome to. He deserves it.

He has the dim knowledge that if Cameron or his sister knew they hit him in the head with something.

 _That's so you, they'd say._

He presses his head hard into the pillows, drowning the groaning sound that comes out of his frustrated chest.

In the next moment he shakes of the pillows and calls the only person that will be around for any kind of advice.

The phone rings. It rings long.

Feels a little bad knowing the sleep habits of his boyfriend. Maybe he finally has found some rest and a panicked Thomas rips him out of it.

"Yes?" Maven's voice doesn't sound drowsy. Not like he's in the morning next to Thomas. When his head is half hidden under a blanket and he's not fully functional yet, for one or two long moments. Those are Thomas favourite moments. He steals the warmth, he steals the simple fact they are together, and that there's nothing to worry about. If he can he steals another moment of Maven's time, not willing to let go, arms holding tightly.

Now he sounds his usual sleepless self. But there is an edge to it Thomas does not like at all. He's still mad about many things. The newest addition is not holding up to the bargain they made. But maybe his brother was right all along when he asked How long the good moment will stay. Especially with the lovely Elara Merandus around. Baby steps for cowards. Things never go the easy way and the worst is he knew that from the beginning. He knew people would react badly. He knew there was the high possibility of screwing up friends. And family. And himself. And he swore he'd not ever take the risk again before, that he'd be fine one day, but this time it has to be different and it has to work.

That edge is just about enough to send his panicking mind in a flurry.

There's the clicking of a switch. The shuffle of feet, very silent. He's roaming through his room. Thomas wonders how it looks like. If it's still filled with flashes of color and images , or if it has sobered along with the toll everything seems to take on them.

 _Does light help? Thomas asks once. Like...does it make a difference?_

 _No. No, it doesn't. Comes the pondering answer._

 _And when we talk? Just talk?_

 _Why do you think I call, Thomas? Letting you talk me into sleep?_

Thomas thinks about making a lot of crude jokes that moment. He could mock. He doesn't.

"Thomas?" Maven's voice repeats. Hardly the friendly version, but the tired drained one. "What do you want?"

"You don't sound so good. Wanna talk?"

"If that was the case I'd have called you. So no." There's a very elaborate silence. It's pretty harsh and cold. "Also, we see each other soon enough tomorrow."

"Wait," Thomas draws the word out. " Wait wait wait, you're angry with me."

"Mildly displeased." Maven answers. On his scale that's not a good answer.

"I don't feel like I deserve that after everything that has happened." Words are like spikes pricking his throat.

There's only the faintest huff. Not even worth an answer.

His hand forms a fist and falls straight down into a pillow like a hammer.

On the other side of the call is only eerie silent for a second.

"If you had hurled insults at her in front of a crowd it wouldn't have been as much challenge to my mother."

"Bet she had a thing or two to say after that." Thomas can't stop himself. He gets up slowly

"We had a very...long discussion when we returned home."

"Was she mean to you? Cause if she was, dude, lemme-"

"I told you to leave it alone." The voice is so sharp it cuts straight through any kind of defense. " But you didn't listen. You had to pick a fight."

"Boy, I'd not pick a fight with her if she was a better person." He shrugs. "I can't help it. She was a stone cold bitch threatening my life last summer. And nothing's really changed about that."

"If you had asked me, I would have told you never to even try and come along."

"Yeah but how could I ask you IF WE DON'T TALK." The words hall back in the kitchen way too loud.

"It was necessary to keep contact at the minimum."

"Uh uh." Thomas makes disgusted. "We had this , before, when you broke my heart. Ducking for weeks. Lying to me. Not this time."

"I don't intend to break your heart. But speaking technically, we're even."

You broke mine, I broke yours. We're even.

Is that how it is?

"Why do you always come back anyway?" Thomas asks, a warm breath in the cold air.

"Is that a serious question?" Maven asks in return, and Thomas can imagine him tilting his head in slight interest.

"Yeah," Thomas assures. "Think about. We always come back to each other. And at least one of us is eating shit when we do."

At first, Thomas left.

The second time, Maven left.

Who will leave this time?

"Maybe people are all right. Maybe we should stay away from each other. Maybe we aren't...I dunno, meant to be." Thomas looses the words in the whisper of a voice, looking into the blinking night. No snow, only faint fog.

"I'm not holding any claim on you, Thomas." The liar proclaims. It's a dirty trick. They both know the truth. It's only spoken out loud to provoke him. " Feel free to leave if you need to."

"We both know I couldn't leave you alone even if I tried." Thomas laughs to untie the knots forming in his stomach. It doesn't work.

"Then don't. You certainly didn't when we met."

"Hey, you ignored me. Couldn't let that stand."

"A little filthy and always mocking people." It sounds almost endearing when he says it like this.

"You were cute and I was bored." Thomas chokes a little on the memory of a summer day at the river. That bench that once meant something and was abandoned.

There is a long breath on the other side of the phone.

Thomas waits. Looks out of the window. Wiggles his toes. Then he decides to say something. "Why did you come back tho, Mave?"

"Because you're Thomas."

Thomas let's out a chuckle. "What does that even mean?"

He guesses he'll never find out. He doesn't get an answer. Maybe he doesn't need to.

"I suppose you don't own a decent suit."

"Decent?" Thomas asks.

"Well that answers my question then."

"Yeah yeah.." He says, rolling his eyes. "Let's end this. See you tomorrow."

He tries to go to sleep after that. He lies awake until there's a faint glimmer of white light shining through the cracks of his door.

Good or bad that he doesn't need to work on weekends. He can't really say yet.

He'd stumble around and would probably be so distracted they'd fire him this time. But now he still has hours to waste and trying not to flip his shit.

What do people do when they feel under constant pressure? Like they are wired wrong, as if high voltage runs through their nerves?

He hasn't been that nervous for a while.

In the end he lands on the doorstep of the crooked house, as he decides to call it.

Because it's bend over and crooked like the fingers of his best friend.

The wind blows over the streets heavy, tiny icicles biting into every bit of skin they can find.

For someone getting cold easily the wind is the worst enemy.

"Nanny," he greets wrestling with the wind. "Tell me my rude spirit animal is at home."

It's cold in the house. Really, freezing. Not any better than outside.

"She's in the basement."

The air down here is stale and something on the concrete sticks to the soles of his boot. He just follows frustrated clanking sounds.

There's a crate next to pipes to his very surprise he finds she's not alone. There's the back of a tawny blond head greeting him.

Good thing is at least there's no second guessing with those two. One punches him if she's pissed and the other will just say it.

"Something not working?" he greets with a salute into the room.

Right now the mood is still light enough. He doesn't want to immediately ruin it.

"Yeah well. Ada does know how to fix shit. But she's not here. So I try to. And Fish Boy was here anyway." she shrugs. "Might as well help."

"I'm just here because you are scary and said you would stab me with a screwdriver if I tried to leave, Cole."

"The worst is she means it." Thomas answers and sits down next to him, crossing his legs.

"You're both useless." She concludes and turns the screwdriver around in her hand .

"I didn't know you were friends."

"Are we friends?" Kilorn ask.

" What do I care?" A grumpy faced Cameron answers. "Think what you want."

"You are hanging out." Thomas says leaning away to get out of the trajectory of anything she could throw.

"That a problem?" Cameron just crosses her arms. " Because you had that crush on him?"

"Cookie!" he hisses.

"Not like I didn't know that." Warren says. " Subtlety isn't your strength, Thomas. That banana joke?"

Thomas let's out a wincing sound. Was just a matter of time until that comes for him too.

"y'know." Cameron comments. Her nails are dirty half moons when she puts one of her hands on her hips but the other points a finger at Thomas. " He asks all the guys if they want to touch his banana, but in the end, he always smooches his asshole ex. Don't feel too flattered."

Why am I friends with this girl? He asks himself, only half serious.

"How's Lightning?" he decides to turn the discussion around and away before they pluck through more of his puns.

"Pissed at you. That's all I'm going to say."

He has to accept that answer.

"What is it this time?" Cameron asks. "You have that shit face."

"Nah, I'm A okay. I just love to be around you. Sweet sweet cookie. Playing so tough but inside you are so soft and-" He gets stopped by the sour expression on her face. Laughs.

She snarls a little bit. "Be glad Fish Boy blocks the path."

"I can move." Warren offers.

"No, " Thomas says, ducking behind him. "No you can't. That girl is mean. But also really the love of my life."

"True love shouldn't be parted." Warren says and gets up.

Something flies over Thomas head. For a while, things are easy.

* * *

"I brought you a suit." Is the loving greeting he gets in the late afternoon . A dark clad figure with a bag tugged under their arm rings his doorbell. He's dragged himself home with a full belly because Nanny force feeded him too much lunch. And with an appetite like his, that means something.

Thomas whistles low through his teeth when he takes off the coat. He's had some chances to see his boyfriend in a suit, but never in real life. It's well fitted and sharp looking. Makes his eyes very blue. He takes a moment to appreciate the sight but concludes he'd rather see him tugged in a blanket next to himself.

He gets the same studying look in return. Maven's eyes move over the too long grey hoodie and his messy hair.

"At least you took a shower."

"Pfff," Thomas makes. "Bite me, pretty boy, it's sweater weather."

"Everyday in your life is sweater weather." It sounds lenient.

"Living the dream. We know you want too." He makes a demanding wave and the plastic bag gets handed over.

There's some bad mojo in the room. Doesn't sit right after the call last night.

He hates suits. He remembers every time he sees one. Less even wearing one. At least he doesn't look too bad in the shirt. It almost fits. Still takes a while to not make a face while he changes.

Like a judge Maven sits on the kitchen table and looks up as soon as Thomas decides to step out.

"You are wearing a bow tie." Maven stares at his attire with a mixture of disbelief.

"Ah, you noticed," Thomas fidgets nervous , hand examining an invisible loose string he picks off his shoulder, trying to be proud and confident for once in his life. "I am giving your suit my personal touch."

"You are wearing a bow tie." Maven repeats. Now he sounds almost like he's choking.

There is a long break, seconds of staring. Thomas knows he sees the crinkles and the lumpy way he has buttoned the shirt. Some wire in his brain seems to disconnect looking at his attire. Maybe he hoped for once in his life that Thomas could dress properly on his own.

Then a single word drops from his mouth.

"Why?"

"Because bow ties are cool. "Thomas mutters. "My sister says I look cute with it?"

"You don't."

"Feels so good how my boyfriend appreciates me." Thomas mocks.

"want to look cute, I mean. Not there."

"So I am cute, yeah? People will think shit anyway."

"Please take it off."

"Only if you take it from my dead body."

"if you don't take it off, I will make you."

"Try me, pretty boy." Thomas dares, making a step back.

One takes a step forward, the other a step back. It's a very strange dance.

It's silly, really. But sometimes that's all there is to forget how serious the rest of the world is.

"Don't be like that, Thomas." Maven tries to negotiate. "I am sure the bow tie is not worth the trouble."

"Ah, " Thomas doesn't take the bait. "Nice try. But no."

In the snap of a moment there's a hand ripping on his collar, "I seems." Maven declares, taking the token of victory and letting it disappear into his pocket. "You lost."

"I surrender to the tyranny of ties." Thomas acknowledges.

A pair of hands are slinging the fabric around his collar with ease. It's the embodiment of some sort of leash. He bristles even though he's not unpleasant surprised to have Maven so close.

"Not so tight." He winces, almost violently tearing at Maven's sleeve. "I need air."

The hands don't stop adjusting the tie, simple and practiced movements, knotting and tugging. "Stop being overly dramatic."

In opportunity to that statement Thomas makes a choking noise as if he's getting strangled, tongue hanging out of his mouth.

"Just get through with it." Maven says, to himself or to Thomas, or maybe to them both.

"I cope with making fun. You know that."

It smells clean but it irks his skin and the collar makes him irritatingly angry because it feels too tight.

"Just don't do it in public. And don't cover up your embarrassment with that too loud snort you sometimes make."

Thomas rolls his eyes.

"Next thing you tell me I need to chew with my mouth shut."

"Thomas, this is serious." This feels like a briefing. He can't stop from smiling. "Stop joking for a second. And take advice."

"If you break up with me before dessert, I'll be pissed ."Thomas says, with just a little sense of dramatic irony.

He doesn't get the reaction he hoped for.

"Wait, wait. That's the blank avoiding consequences face. You're not telling me something."

Then it clicks and his shoulders slump. "I'm not going as your boyfriend. I'm just some extra, right?"

"No one will ask if you are my boyfriend."

"And I shouldn't tell anyone. Bummer."

"You should avoid talking to anyone on principle. People will notice every little mistake."

"Why not invent a story tho? Something cute. Piss people off." Thomas hands clasp around Maven's. They are very pale in comparison to his. "Maybe I worked in a coffeeshop and you were a customer."

"And you didn't like me at all." His hands are still holding the tie, twirling it around, like Thomas is a fish that bit a tasty worm and Maven pulls the line back in. There's some amusement in his face. Thomas tries to keep a smooth face.

"Yeah, I'd write your name wrong every time." He says, slinging his arms around Maven's waist. "But only because I was secretly attracted to you."

"Secretly?" He's not missing a beat, Thomas has to give him that. His hands are tugging a little and if he wasn't already so close he can feel his breath on his face, he'd have no way to back off now.

"Super secretly. " Thomas assures. There's that spark again. It's a little like chasing fire whenever they get close. Something warm forming around and inside him, but still it has to be handled with caution not to burn. "Like... infuriated but also a little turned on when we snark at each other."

The hands stop twirling the tie around.

For a moment he looks like he just will lean over and kiss Thomas.

Then the flat end of the fabric hits Thomas in the face when Maven takes a swing with the tie. Not really hard. More a boop on his nose. Then he let's go. Thomas blinks surprised.

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm trying to be smooth here." Thomas protests, bristling against the try to leave his arms for a second.

"I noticed. Now be serious a moment and listen to me." Theres an urge behind that words that make coping with fun impossible. He feels the tension again. Not good. "Someone will remember what I said about you."

Thomas frowns a little. "Ah, the smear campaign."

"Yes, _that_."

"But it's been a while." Thomas sighs and can't believe his own lies. "Maybe no one recognizes me."

"Someone will. And make sure everyone else knows too. So don't try to invent any stories. Because you will be the worst liar in the room."

"But I'm with the best." Thomas says, half joking, and half roughly concealed raw memory. "So if you have my back, I'll survive."


	16. Slippery steps

**[A/N] This was hard for me to write but I hope I nailed it.**

* * *

Maven's hair is pushed back by the wind as soon as the door closes and they step outside the building. It's already quite dark . The only vulnerable light shines from the lonesome street lamp on the corner.

"Our car should be here soon."

"Of course there's a car," Thomas mutters.

Maven looks up slowly, pulling on his dark glove. Thomas is mildly attracted to his appearance, all smooth and groomed. He'd still prefer no suit and a blanket over this evening. But the longer he looks the more he gets the appeal. Especially that glove move. Not fair. Puppy love Thomas would be delighted to swoon. Glad he doesn't have time for something like that right now. "You didn't think we'd take a bus."

Thomas whistles low. "What do I know?"

"I thought it was clear from the last half hour that I tried to prepare you."

Thomas smiles mirthlessly. "You're not a bad teacher, but I am a hopeless case. Especially when I'm nervous. That's why I never got far in school."

There is no sound but the fluttering of snow and heavy breathing. Cars driving by in the dist, the grinding of tires over bumpy ground littered with ice and slippery stone.

He sees themselves in the mirroring, sleek surface of the car. It's a bit weird. He's not bad looking in the suit. Not any more than out of normal standards. It's not too big, not really, though it's clearly not made for him. But it's out of his comfort zone so much he might as well just walk around naked.

On second thought, no, not that worse. He's freezing cold already through the thin fabric of his coat.

He got a scarf. Worth something, he thinks, tugging his chin in there. And he is all in black and white, which is good in contrast to that crimson coat next to him. He couldn't sport something bright.

People will see that his nose is slightly bent, where it was broken two years ago. People will notice his teeth aren't as white and perfect. They'll see he has scars and they'll see his skin was terrible when he was around 12 leaving some traces behind. They'll see the way he flushes red.

They'll see and they will look down. They will ignore him at best and pick on him at worst.

The hate card has been played often enough on him for various reasons. He was a weird kid. He is into guys. Man, school had been such a blast. Even after there was the homeless phase. He wouldn't change that for the people it has brought in his life. But he remembers the disgust. It's branded into him, drawn on his skin like the ink he wears.

People look at some poor boy from the Stilts and they see he is Red. He is filth.

There are exclusions. Sure enough. Not every kind of person is a full-blown asshole.

But what are the odds people will be nice?

Especially with that story floating in the orbit. Ah, the old days were his heart was neatly broken and his friends not as pissed.

Thomas can see the mugshot in front of his eyes. The split lip and the dirty clothes. He looks tame now in comparison.

"After you." Thomas motions to the door and blinks into the dark sky, snow flurries down. It's getting heavier by the minute.

It's warm in the back of the car. He slips in next to Maven, who doesn't say a word.

At least there's no one else waiting inside. He'd have imagined a very dramatic entrance of Elara, but she's nowhere to be found.

Maven reads the thoughts off his face. "She waits for us. "

"Wouldn't want to be in the ugly part of town." He mutters.

The world rushes by. There's only the sound of the car engine and breaths on the backseat.

Thomas tries to make a joke, flirt maybe. Hey, fifteen minutes in the back of a car, wanna make out?

The words are stuck in the back of his throat and he just stares at the leather of the seat, down on his shoes. On the slightly wet coats, drizzled with melting snow.

He feels almost claustrophobic for a moment. Like the backseat and the roof of the car are caving and are going to swallow him up.

Their sides brush. Thomas leans his head back.

"Repeat the plan again."

"It's greetings and introduction first." Maven says. "All around. It takes some time. Keep in the back. Don't talk. Don't try. When someone does talk to you, keep the answer short and polite. As soon as that is over, we'll see."

It would be easy to ruin this. Easy to fuck it up.

"So I look pretty in the background." He concludes with disgust.

"You want to survive, do you? "Maven answers, not missing a beat. His head is slightly tilted like he is a bird staring down on something mildly interesting. Some sort of commotion. A dog barking but never able to reach him up in the branches.

"Did you have that kind of talk with Barrow? On the day before...you know. When the bombs went up."

He doesn't know why he brings it up. It's another unclear matter hanging over their heads.

Something twitches behind Maven's face. "I didn't have to fix her tie, that's for sure."

He feels a bitter taste in his mouth but decides not to say anything anymore. Things can never be easy and simple. And even if one problem is solved or in the making, ten new are piling up. And some are maybe never really going to be solved.

"Also, do not try to fight my mother." Like he hasn't said it forty times already.

"What if she starts?" Thomas asks hopeful. Because he knows she will. _Not like I could woop her ass. She's in another league. But it doesn't stop me trying._

There's a hand on Maven's temple , like he already has a headache before anything has even begun. "Just act like a rational being once. You would make a fool out of yourself."

Thomas snorts. "More than usual, nah, not possible."

Even the short way from the car to the building is covering their coats in thick white flakes.

Thomas blinks irritated. Maven frowns and hurries. Thomas would be impressed with skyscrapers if he didn't have to work in one. And saw one explode. And maybe if it wouldn't remind him of the architectural horror of that stupid center. As it is, he tries to follow inside as fast as he can, shrugging the snow off his back.

Something in his head rings shrill as soon as he sees a familiar frame. Blue and black, like a bruise that will never go away, Elara stands straight.

"Mother." Maven greets.

"There you are," she answers. Her eyes categorically ignore shifting in Thomas position for now. "The weather is terrible. I am so glad you could make it on time."

"Ma'am." Thomas presses out of his throat, it feels like he's swallowing razors.

 _You're not getting out of greeting me. Same as I am not getting out of this right now._

"It took me a moment to make sure it was really you, Thomas." She says, eyes moving down to his feet and up his suit. "Almost like you belong here."

It's the usual warped compliment, the usual gibe.

Thomas only wrinkles his nose, trying not to make a face. Like he's a child wanting to stick out his tongue to end an argument.

Not to his surprise, there is no visible reaction by Maven. The master of maneuvering around conflicts and strategic backstabbing has decided to pull the card right now and lets it go by with his avoiding blank face.

This will be hell. And he's not good with prancing around words.

Thomas only wrinkles his nose, trying not to make a face. Like he's a child wanting to stick out his tongue to end an argument.

Her smell clings to his nostrils in the small space of the elevator. Squeezed between his very silent boyfriend (who's not his boyfriend tonight obviously, and doesn't that sound great? Like he's not had his share of lies) and the mother of mothers. Starts great. Really.

 _It's his own fault, his own damn fault._

If he had the choice, he would jump back and go down as soon as the elevator doors opens.

These rich folks are doing everything amped up to the maximum. Thomas stares at the silver chandeliers with a hint of prejudice. The floor is so polished and slippery he almost stumbles.

The looks are exactly why Thomas hated counseling. Remembering the pity party from hell. Remembering the perfectly planned prejudice. He remembers why he's not a social butterfly. Why he dislikes crowds. Why he keeps under a blanket instead of going out. They take down what little protection hiding behind Maven's back can bring. They sniff out his missing perfection and notice the slight pink flush on his face.

If he had thought he'd have any right to breathe in their direction, he is wrong.

At first, it doesn't seem so terrible. Everyone is deadly polite. And it's true what Maven said once, he has the tact of a leaf vacuum, so perhaps it's alright if he doesn't say that much. He'd bulldozer over them, laugh too much, lie too bad and eat dirt in the end.

It starts harmlessly. Really.

"I wouldn't have thought you would bring someone _like that_ along." Come on, you fancy people have slang for us the same as we have for you, Thomas thinks, just say it.

"Oh please, my dear, you know me and my big heart."

A big heart? Someone ought to bring Thomas a bucket of water. He wants to know if she melts.

When the conversation shifts even more over to his person, he shifts uncomfortable. Because he doesn't get to say anything. The eyes that study him aren't really seeing a human being. They see some sort of weird dog. Or one of those naked cats.

He hates cats, but naked cats? They're just a little weird.

For a second he imagines a naked cat in a sweater. The world is easy for that second. But it gets blown up fast.

"That's in the past." Maven answers and Thomas snaps right back. "And I am very glad he has decided to seek help. Thomas was always a good person, he just needed guidance."

If he had slapped him in the face he'd not be more embarrassed and hurt.

 _We're back at the start. Fucking great._

He gets to hear a lot of those pearls of wisdom the next half hour. Things that make his toes curl. "He was my best friend." is the most harmless. The worst is he smiles and nods and says "Yes" to get through with it.

Sometimes people talk like he's not in the same plane of existence at all.

"I don't know if I am entertained or unsettled," Someone says. "But it does fit the pattern. Attention seekers. "

"You know he has a soft spot for those people. Remember the girl."

Sometime later and he can't take it anymore. He hasn't eaten since lunch but he feels so bloated and sick he tries not to puke in the middle of this room.

It's an easy excuse. He receives glares out of two pairs of blue eyes. One seems rather satisfied. the other looks almost apologetic for a second before it's just as hard.

He flees into a close corner and the furthest table.

 **Hey, Lightning,** he types, fidgeting with his phone anyway to be left alone. **What has two thumbs and is an idiot?**  
He doesn't expect an answer.  
Instead, he turns on the camera and snaps a picture of himself in the suit.  
 **You'll never guess where I am.** He writes to Cameron and sending the picture. Even though he grins he looks dead miserable. Thomas doesn't blame his reflection.

She isn't answering either. Boring.

But it's expected. He's not the most important part in anyone's life.

Funny enough, someone passes close by and he waves. Her dress is showing a lot of her shoulders and her figure off. Dark hair up, he's got a perfect look at the thing he can identify her with best.

"Hey ." He greets, leaning on the table, trying to not look as miserable as he feels. The cloth feels too smooth and cold under his fingertips. "You helped me pick up the papers. Remember?"

There's a very small smile on her face when she actually stops and looks at him. "You liked my tattoos."

"Still do."

"I didn't think I would meet you here."

"Cause I'm Red yeah?"

"Let me rephrase that." She says, moving a little closer. "I didn't think I would meet you again because it seemed unlikely you were invited."

Not out front and blatantly insulting? There's something about her he can't grasp. Maybe he's just nervous. She was really friendly when she helped him pick the papers up. Why assume there's something behind it?

He blows out a stream of air. "Sorry, people have been pretty vocal about my heritage this evening."

They eye each other for a moment.

"I'm Thomas." Not that you wouldn't know. Everyone knows. He sees the muscles in her arms and shoulders coil when she leans over.

"Iris."

"Good to know the name to the face. And uh, nice dress, I guess." He drinks again. "I'm a sweater person, so I have not a clue about fashion."

Her eyes are crazy grey, it's a color he'd love to pick up and draw with. "I wouldn't have guessed with the suit you are wearing."

"It's borrowed. He's got a good sense for stuff like that."

For a moment none says anything. It's the kind of silence when people could continue the small talk but at least one of them doesn't want to. Thomas was never really good at that. The weather, meaningless good good and you?

It is a little awkward now.

"My father is waiting," Iris says. Saving herself with grace from the gnawing insecurity in Thomas' chest.

"Yeah, no problem. Thanks for talking to me."

He watches her back retreat, tattoos swirling over her bare skin.

After that, some sort of line seems to blur. Not for good.

After that, some sort of line seems to blur. Not for good.

At first, he doesn't notice he's being watched. Soon enough there's no chance denying it because the girl creeps right up to him, silent like a freaking ninja.

She's as pretty as any of them, he supposes. Not really a good judge on girls. The last girl he dated was named Bea when he was 13 and they kissed once. Her braces were clinking against his teeth and he realized girls weren't his cup of tea since he was more interested in her brother than poor Braces Bea.

"Look what the cat dragged in. You're new."

Avoid talking to people.

What can be the harm in having a chat with this girl?

"Yeah, I'm here with Maven."

"I thought I knew your face." She explains, smiling. Something lurks behind that quiet smile. He can't pin it down exactly. "You were a topic in one of those-"

"I don't think he wants to talk about that, Sonya." Someone else saves him, sneaking up just like her friend. Long red curls, wearing black but somehow not looking ordinary. He remembers her. Pretty Red, who saved him from a broken nose by her spiky friend in a coffee shop. Seems like an eternity ago. Barely a year has passed.

"But it is you." There is a lot more she does not say.

He huffs unpleasant."Yep. That was me. Thomas."

Thomas the unpleasant street rat. The addict and stalker.

"But it's, eh, not important anymore. People will forget." He shrugs.

"Sure," Sonya says very quietly. If she was laughing and shaking her head she couldn't deny the possibility more. Her eyes aren't as dark brown as his own. They have some tint in them. It makes her look even more uncomfortable.

Pretty Red is not trying to make the mocking comment he expects. There has been a pattern this evening.

"I'm Elane."

Trying to be polite, he extends a hand before he realizes that's probably an insult.

She doesn't even get to consider taking it because he pulls it back quickly . Now he really feels like he's definitely insulted someone.

"Is it like this usually? I mean...Only five people thought I was working here. And no one tried to throw me out. So it's a blast, yeah?"" He jokes before he can stop himself. What did Maven say about joking and coping with fun?

Too late for that now. And not like he is around to stop it. No no, he prances around with his mother somewhere.

He drinks to wash away the stale taste.

"At least there was no talk about water gymnastics for you by that girl. She wants everyone to know. " Elane says to his surprise, eyes flickering over to a blue dressed girl. There's some humour behind it. He appreciates it. "Does she ever stop?"

"She thinks it is graceful. Let her live in delusion." Sonya answers her. She still watches Thomas, small glances out of the corner of her eye. Shady, he thinks, are you?

"I met you before. But I'm sure you don't remember." He says to Elane. "Spilled my coffee over your friend." He could have chosen to say girlfriend or date. But he isn't sure that's a thing discussed in the open. Not in a place he knows nothing about. He feels that talking about non-conservative stuff with the only Red dude isn't helping.

"My friend?" she asks.

"Spiky grey? She looked like she wanted to bite off my nose."

"That can only refer to Evangeline Samos." Sonya comments. "Didn't she say she would come along with Ptolemus? I haven't seen her or your fiance this evening."

"I guess they are still occupied."

"Usually Ptolemus says that when people ask where you two are." Sonya smiles.

 _Talk about subtext._

Thomas shudders. Elane doesn't even blink.

"We can be so busy. I'm sorry if you feel left out."

"Oh, I am fine," Sonya smiles. "Don't worry about me, Elane."

 _Is that..are these girls friends? Bless my girl friends. They just hit each other square in the jaw if they have a problem and talk shit when they don't._

* * *

Thomas has changed locations to the window , still in the corner, when a narrow-eyed Maven finds him.

"Oh, there he is. " Thomas says. "My bestest friend of the world."

"Are you drunk?"

"Nah," Thomas follows his eyes to the empty glasses piling on the table. "Only three of that is mine. Other people leave their junk when they pass. Maybe they expect me to clean up."

 _Or to them, I'm having the same worth of an empty glass. Or am as useless and dirty as a used paper towel._

Ah, the sweet taste of humiliation.

It does not help he seems to be allergic to ninety percent of the food served. The guy that has the alcohol gives him pity glares whenever he grabs a new one. Yeah, buddy, he thinks, me too.

"So. How's it going, friend I was unhappy in love with?"

"You are subtle tonight," is the only answer.

"Okay, " Thomas cracks his knuckles, rolling his shoulders. "then I'll start. First off, the people, yeah? Bitch, bitch, asshole bullying the staff. " he points over. "Guy who asked me if I was still shooting not because of interest but because he's a real asshole. Oh and that one over there," he points to a pretty girl, dark braided hair and perfect makeup. She's quietly sipping on her drink.

"Sonya Iral." Maven helps out.

"Oh yeah, whatever. I call her creepy spy girl. She was interrogating me. Like...I swear she did. She asked me really easy questions. But there was something behind it. Pretty Red," he nods over to the small group to his left. Names, names, he thinks. Elane. Right. In black. "Was nice enough."

His eyes muster right over to both figures close by. Grey haired and fairly intimidating.

"And Spiky Grey. Who is a bitch, but surprisingly not the worst? I mean, she'd bite off my face if we ever met alone, but it's kinda okay. Also, what is that fucking partner look with her brother? I wish I had that confidence. He's pretty hot, by the way."

Maven has very little interest and feelings reserved for either of them, he can feel it. But now he's looking up. The slightest grey flush creeps over his neck when he sees Thomas smile. "What was that last one?"

"Hey, I have eyes." Thomas shrugs the jealousy off. " And there are tons of pretty girls too. Let me find something about it that I don't hate."

"He's going to marry the red-haired one, by the way."

 _We don't need to talk about the reason she is marrying him but looking the other way._

"I heard. So you're not the only one in the closet tonight." He concludes, not willing to let it go. "Congratulations."

Maven looks like he's gnawing on granite for a second. Thomas laughs mirthless.

"Chill, I'm not gonna go over and stick my tongue down his throat. Or try doing that to you. Wouldn't want to ruin your day." Thomas huffs. "But really, I ask everyone if they wanna touch my banana, it's true."

There's a ridiculing glance again as if Thomas has lost his mind once and for all.

"Oh my," he realizes. "I never made that joke in front of you. I made all kinds of bad puns but never the banana joke. "

This is all wrong. It's like there's only a vacuum left and while he tries to breath he can't . His boyfriend who's not tonight just stands and stares, eyes as hard and sharp as the glass reflecting the skyline.

"You look like you are planning to kill someone." Thomas tugs on his tie, momentarily gaining the attention back. "Please don't."

"Don't be ridiculous. " Maven answers, very rational. It soothes Thomas for only a second. "I don't plan to kill someone. How messy would that be? I'd let someone else do it and dispose of the bodies quietly." He throws over an unmoving glance. "Like Evangeline's _pretty hot_ brother."

"Ha, hahaha." Thomas makes. "I forget you have humor sometimes."

There's no visible reaction to that.

"You are joking."

"Of course." Maven brushes his shoulder as he turns around. " A joke."

"Good." Thomas lets out another shaky laugh. He notices he's lost the last bit of attention when Maven's eyes dart back through the room.

"You wait here." Maven says. "I need to- nevermind, explaining that would make your mood even fouler. Just wait here and talk to no one."

"Can I get more drunk?" Thomas asks. He receives an icy glare.

"Can I stop you?" Who'd think Maven would ask the rhetoric questions one day.

"Nah. Not after what happened."

For a while, he just tries to enjoy the sight. The heavy snow blowing over all those red, blue and white lights. The city is so vibrant, so fighting to be alive, even cloaked in white it tries to show off.

He forgets where he is for a short duration. People even leave him alone. Maybe they try to think of new ways to humiliate him before they return.

He hasn't expected the clicking of heels, very familiar by now. She's choosing her timing very well.

"Still here," Elara says, eyes taking in his shaking state. "Aren't you persistent, Thomas."

" Ma'am." Thomas bows a little, it reeks of mock. " I knew you would have fun seeing me like this."

"Why are you still trying?" she asks, leaning over slightly. He flinches back like she just snapped at him with her perfect white teeth. "We both know you want to run away. Give in, Thomas, and run, as long as you still have the chance. My son doesn't care if you leave. He'll find another fickle attachment he can waste his time on obsessing."

"He's not obsessing over me." Thomas protests. He thinks of that creepy thing going on between Lightning and Maven. And the way he used to call when they weren't on good terms. I don't like being ignored, Thomas. "He loves me."

"Is that so?" She smiles thin-lipped. "A very slippery line you walk."

"Did you ever love someone, Ma'am?" he asks, honestly curious, looking in her face.

"What a question." She huffs and for a second she looks so much like her son it is unsettling. "Please don't insult me, Thomas."

"I mean, it's hard, isn't it? But my mother told me love is patient, and she's married to my father. So if a man like that can keep a woman like her, who knows?"

"Tell yourself it's real as long as you wish. You'll be left with nothing soon enough."

"Is threatening me your hobby?" he asks, too sharp and loud.

"I'm not threatening you. It is a promise. And not just to you."

"Yeah well, some of us die young." He says, thinking about all the names plastered on walls. On people dying on the street or in cells, shot or beaten just because they have enough. He thinks of his friends and the dread that sits right in his stomach whenever one is missing for a short while. "But we leave something behind. You can't fight that forever."

He sees her silhouette in the mirroring sleek glass, hair, and clothes trimmed to perfection. If he had ever to draw her, she'd be made of diamonds. Hard and glittering, but devoid of color. "What an inspiring answer. I'm fairly sure I heard it in one speech from Diana Farley before she committed murder in the name of justice."

If Thomas' head was a lightbulb it would explode with a shattering sound and one last brimming with energy. He fights hard to keep a miserable scrap of composure.

"You know, I really appreciate spending time with you. I mean, we need to get along," he shrugs. "You'll be my mother in law one day." He tries to smile as brightly as possible.

She smiles back. It's that pointy smile, like a cat. "A rather incredulous possibility. Especially after this evening. Enjoy the rest of it."

He huffs at that, not willing to give her any other reaction.

"And now excuse me. I have family to greet." Her voice is a whisper on his neck even in that distance.

This evening is…something.

There's a man standing next to Elara. He has an eerie resemblance to her in some ways and it doesn't take a genius to see they're clearly related.

There's more of them, he realizes and feels a little unsettled by the thought of more like her.

It's like that one time his sister woke him in the middle of the night to pluck a spider off the bathroom wall . Just to have him realize that freaking spider had laid eggs in the hollow of the wall later when baby spiders seemed to explode and crawl from everywhere.

 _Nope, nope._

He has no intention to even look another time. Maybe it's time to make a overdue bathroom break.

* * *

The bathroom feels as big as the house he has grown up. It's definitely and as everything in this building so expensive and shiny that it seems ridiculous how much money has had to be spent on it. He can see his face in the white marble. The floor is so sleek and polished when he slithers over it his soles make a squeaking sound.

A quick look into the mirror along the walls, opposite to the strangely constructed stalls that somehow aren't at all like any moody old stall he has ever spent time at, and he sees stains on his jacket. Sees his flushed face. And he still wants to cry.

Also. Big fucking chance, he walked into the ladies bathroom. Well, too late now. He just finds a stall and locks himself, pulling out his phone.

"Asshat complain department," Cole says stone cold.

That girl. Thomas doesn't waste time and just rolls his eyes silently.

"I am royally fucked," he whispers, hugging his legs on the toilet seat.

"I thought you liked that," she says. "Wait a second, I put you on speaker."

"Hahahaha." he mocks.

"That Thomas on the fancy party?" he hears a voice ask and feels surprised.

"Are you STILL with Warren?" _This world has a very strange irony some days._

"Did you look outside? It's going to be a fucking blizzard."

"Am I getting replaced by a wittier and better-looking version?" he asks with enough dramatic energy to put the worst actor dying a lonesome movie death to shame.

"She still has the screwdriver," Warren whispers. "Send help."

"Oh, I will help you both," she promises.

For a moment he can forget that he sits in a lady's bathroom, on a toilet seat and was about to cry.

"Did you spit the lordys into that fancy piss water they drink?" Cameron asks.

"Yeah, no. It was more like they kicked me in the gut. I am Thomas the druggie." he says."Can this stay between us? Farley will behead me if she hears about it. And Lightning...eh..."

"The usual deal," she promises. "You spill it and get the salt. I just watch. Can't talk about Fish boy tho."

"If he gets clean, it's not my deal."

"I see what you did there." Thomas comments.

"Just get the fuck out." Cameron says. "Seriously. Maybe set off the sprinkler system. Or block the elevator. Ruin their evening after you are gone."

"I love you." Thomas sighs. "Maybe I should just leave. But it feels like giving up, y'know?" He hears steps and listens, frozen like a deer in headlights. "I call again."

"Wait-"

"She's so definitely screwing her brother's fiancé." a voice announces next to him. Thomas sits as still as possible, but it's like he's in a different plane of existence anyway. The door protects him from their glances.

" Yeah, but she doesn't have to marry him. Why do you think Cygnet is here? Heard they plan some fusion. Marry her off to your biggest contester and make it all yours."

"That boy he brought though..."

"That red slob? He's not supposed to be here?" the other voice says. Wow, Thomas thinks, we're on the same page on that.

"What no, he is," comes the mocking answer. "To bring you a drink or park your car."

There are at least three girls he knows that would burst right now. Their reactions range from punching them in the face and smearing silver blood over the marble floors to burning them so badly with words they are good done steak in fancy dresses. Instead of being as proud and kickass as them, he makes himself very small, holding his breath.

"You think _they do it_?"

"He's not into _that_ , is he?"

"You think Merandus would have let him drag him into here if they did? I don't think so. He's a junkie, I heard."

"He's a gay junkie." Silver one comments."Not that I have a problem with that. Just-"

"Just that you have." The second voice says, laughing so shrill it hurts his ears. The laughter fades into the distance.

* * *

"Mave, a second." He says, tugging at his scarf and not wasting any time with pleasantries. He feels like half the room is glaring.

It's the only saving grace of Maven he immediately turns and follows.

"I'm leaving. Really. I can't stand it anymore. I just want sweater weather and a blanket. At home."

"I think it would be for the best." Maven agrees.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. And thanks. For showing me what I always knew. Maybe you want to be my boyfriend again tomorrow."  
He pats his arm, only slightly, but feels the recoil. As if he's just shot him.

* * *

There are eyes like needles pricking his neck. He hammers against the elevator button but nothing visible happens.

He decides a walk maybe not the worst. All those stairs could make his head free.

The metal door is abandoned. The stairs are lonely and empty, grey and white. An exit sign flickers.

He stands on the highest stair, feet slightly over the edge.

It's a lot of stairs. Maybe he should just wait for the elevator. That won't take so long, right?

A walk will clear his head. Pff. There's the clicking sound of the door opening behind him. He let's go of the banister, attempting to turn his head and take a peak on whoever is just following up. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's Maven. He doesn't get to turn.

The next thing he knows there is a weight pushing against his back. Hands, he realizes. His feet slip with force down the first two stairs before he loses his balance completely and topples over. Rolling down the hard stone. His head hits something hard and the world gets dark for a moment.


	17. Bad weather

_**[A/N] A really short update , sorry. Had a busy week. POV shifts, yay or nay? I may have two others in planning.  
**_

* * *

 _Cameron_

The electricity is buzzing. For a moment it seems like it will just give up, the light bulb flickers. The kitchen is naked, grey, old and battered. It's a wonder the house is still standing at all. But the house is a fighter, a good old friend not willing to break. Not as long as there are still people living in it, caring for it.

Thomas calls it 'the crooked house', old and bend over. She can get behind that. It's a lot better than any name she could come up with. Someone called it 'Freakshow' once.

First the heating, now the electricity. Good thing she keeps the belt close enough and knows a thing or two about how to fix things. It also helps to live with someone who doesn't forget a thing she hears or reads.

The wind howls through the cracks. The temperature is dropping.

The weather had promised snow. Not this kind of storm though.

It's a dense cloud of heavy flakes, like oversized confetti. Celebrating clogging the whole town, freezing sidewalks and covering ground.

There's some shuffling behind Cameron's back. The chair next to her gets pulled back, making a screeching low sound over the floor. For a long moment, she refuses to look. Thinking it's maybe Nanny again. Finding her in the late night wandering through the house and down the basement or the kitchen.

Nanny doesn't try to convince her to go to bed. She just gives her that look most times, and Cameron looks back. Wonders how she's living in this place, with these people.

It's, in fact, this time, not Nanny.

"You look worried," Kilorn says. When she looks over his hair is slightly tousled, like someone that has turned around in an unfamiliar place and can't get to rest so easy.

For a moment she ponders if she even wants to answer.

He's not so bad. And it's not about him staying. Ada teaches him how to read, and he stays more often the last time. Things with Barrow can be a little tense sometimes. But who is Cameron to tell? Her best friend is Thomas. If anyone takes the drama cake, it's that boy. Best friends are tense.

" I hate it when he doesn't answer his phone." she huffs.

 _I hate the thought something has happened to him_ , is what she doesn't say. _I hate the thought he lies in a ditch again and that he's hurt or worse, and that I don't know._

Just like her brother.

 _Exactly_ like her brother.

She thinks about the fluttering moment. When she saw his image on the screen, the first glimpse of his existence for weeks. A fleeting second of hope. She wouldn't give him up. Ever.

There's still hope enough to get him back somehow. People had hoped by the time winter reached the door they'd have won a revolution. But it's more like a cold war right now. There's a lot of words, people watching each other with eagle eyes. And not to forget half of them is still under suspicions.

And then there's still nothing and everything to do about it. And she doesn't like the thought of doing nothing. Not that she thinks she could march somewhere alone and receive a better treatment than the guys getting shot and tased in the open. This society is a rotten piece of shit and it gets only worse with time.  
You want a criminal? Look in the mirror, silver asshole, she thinks, feeling uncontrollable anger in the middle of her stomach everytime she sees a report about the evils and wrongs the world does to the privileged.

To think about it makes her mood even fouler. It doesn't go by unnoticed.

"He's probably on his way back home. He said he wanted to leave."

"Yeah maybe. Or he did something stupid."

" Well, he's Thomas." Is the only answer she receives. And when she looks over there's something glimmering inside his green eyes.

She crosses her arms, looking up to the lightbulb again. With a snazzy twitch, the lightbulb goes dark for a second. This time it takes a long breath before it blinks into existence again.

"And that's the problem." She doesn't need to spell it out. Between them, they both know what a massive idiot Thomas can be.

And not just because he falls on his face flat often and needs to get picked up. But because he's stuck on the idea of something...someone. That never sat right with her. Even one thought about that silver prick makes her want to puke out her intestines. But he never does what people tell him and he never learns. So waiting is the only thing to do. Did she mention she hates waiting?

"You can yell at him tomorrow. Go to sleep, Cam."

She notices the first time he calls her "Cam". It's definitely less bad than Cookie or whatever nickname that idiot Thomas always spits out. And then she notices again that she doesn't mind. People expect her to snap and snarl, but she doesn't.

"What about you?" she asks instead.

"Dunno. Just couldn't sleep."

"Guys are snoring," she guesses and he puffs out an amused sound.

"Like beasts."

Sitting together is nicer than expected. Irritating to notice she trusts him, at first. It is like back in the summer, when she realized there was that boy watching her with friendly dark brown eyes. And that he didn't go away no matter how many times she told him to fuck off. Up until she started liking him back, and she saw through the humor and the attitude he just was lonely. And that she was lonely sometimes too, despite her brother still around, because they were always on the run.

People are lonely often. Nothing new about that.

* * *

The house is barely warming up. Electricity has stopped buzzing and works perfectly in the morning again. It's something.

The coat of snow outside the window is so thick it drowns streets and sidewalks. It still hasn't stopped. The flakes whirl around, a pristine dance in silence.

She pulls over the sweater and hooks her thumb through a hole in the sleeve, playing with a loose string as she looks outside. Then her eyes look over to the small night stand with the old phone resting on it.

No new messages, no new calls. Thomas better has a damn good excuse.

She stole a phone once upon a time when she was very desperate. Just to call him. If it's because he is sleeping with his toad boyfriend again, she'll punch him so hard in the shoulder he'll make that baby face.

"Heyyy," his voicemail says. "I'm eh, busy or something? Maybe just sleeping. Whatever. You could just leave a message I guess."

"Asshat. Call back." she just says before ending the call.

With one last look, the phone glides back into the back of her pocket.

There's the smell of food coming from downstairs.

Feet shuffling over floorboards, voices somewhere around.

It could almost feel comfortable if she was in her head. One brother missing, one friend not answering the phone. That nags on her like critters in the walls, scratching claws and little-rattling noises.

She finds Nanny in the kitchen, close to the warm stove, like some old cat warming her paws and dreaming the day away.

"Heating is failing again." she just says, snatching the food off the plate before anyone else can. "I think I know what's wrong."

"Ada's back." Nanny just says, drinking from her cup. "I'm sure you two can fix it."

"Yeah." she takes a bite and moves back.

Her phone buzzes.

News.

She thinks of the small silver flash drive. Passing from the asshole Calore (not to be confused with the older one, because that one is not quite as good in assholery and he ain't the one shagging Thomas and leaving him, no no, he is just having a weird relationship with Barrow, and if she hears about fucked up relationship drama today shes WILL stab someone with a screwdriver from her tool belt, but whatever, not the point) to her. She was suspicious it would roast the computer or be plain lies, even considered throwing it in the river to not let anyone track the information. In the end it found its way up the ranks and to Farley.

The phone buzzes again and it's an address.

Farley's not wasting much words. She doesn't waste much time at all, running around, always followed by Shade Barrow. She'd never take a break despite...her condition. Not hard to figure that one out even though no one's talking about it yet. First that morning sickness, the way her boyfriend flies even closer behind her, and last week she was the only one not drinking beer. And she didn't even drive.

Not that Cameron expects anyone but maybe Thomas to loose his shit and tell her when people do talk about it.

By the signs of it, he's got no clue. No wonder, that boy can overthink on what people think about one stroke of his pencil on paper, but he is as conscious as a loaf of bread sometimes, biting hard into one little detail instead of looking at the picture at whole.

The basement reminds her of home. Old pipes creaking. She can almost imagine her parents in the dim light for a moment.

But only for a moment. As soon as it's over she tries not to think about it.

Her fingers work quietly and fast. Time becomes some meaningless background drop, as long as she's focused.

When Ada finds her, she's already done, inspecting the work, watching the red arrow swing as something aches inside the house.

"Fixed it." Ada says. There's some appreciation behind it.

"Wasn't hard." Cameron answers, glancing at her roommate for a moment.

"Hannah called me, she said she tried you but didn't get a chance." At the mention of Thomas sister she makes a face, almost unnoticeable. A small wrinkle in her brow. They worked together, once , as far as Cameron knows, but never close." You haven't seen Thomas, have you?"

"No." He really should have the best excuse if people flip their shit already. "Have some ideas were he could be tho. Moron."

"Just call her back please." Ada does this thing when she's somewhere in the library of her thoughts , working through something. "It seems urgent."

What was it about drama today? Assholery everywhere.

She makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat and hopes news mean good news. Something about Morrey. Something to show the poor silver lordy on their piss ass high horses the middle finger.

Hannah sounds frantic and panicked. Must come from the time her brother used to live in the streets and would just disappear.

"I haven't seen him since friday at work. He didn't say he wanted to go out, and I just catch the voice mail."

"Check his slimy boyfriend. They went out yesterday. Some fancy party. Went wrong terrible." Who would have thought, she doesn't say. " He's either sleeping with him right now or murdered Thomas."

"You hate that guy even more than I do." Hannah mutters. "Check in later. Need to get a clue. We were invited to family dinner tonight and if he doesn't show up Dad will disown him."


	18. Everything I touch burns

_**[A/N] This chapter depicts personal experience with mental illness and enabling parents. It isn't meant to condemn nor glorify the topic. I try to be sensible about it. If you feel offended, I am sorry. If you think I should change parts of it, leave me a comment. I take this very seriously. (Also, I plan to make POV shifts more often from now between Maven, Thomas, Cameron and another I won't spoil. I just need to warm up. I had 120 k to get warm with writing Thomas)** _

* * *

_Maven_

Minimize the damage.

He stands on one side of the room, wading through a swamp of etiquette and compliments.

Every word is weighted on the tip of tongues. That is how it always has been.

His attention is divided though. This evening is indefinitely more complicated than anything he has thought about.

Minimize the damage.

He keeps his distance to Thomas. There's enough talk. A blind man in the dark could see the looks. When their arms brush he moves away.

More than ever, this is what was not supposed to happen.

He wasn't supposed to fall for a homeless red boy in a circle of chairs, smiling and drawing a tree with rough strokes on some discarded paper.

He wasn't supposed to kiss him. To take the offer of comfort. Not being able to even express how grateful he was.

He wasn't the person Thomas thought he was. He could never have been.

And when they stumbled back things had changed.

He had lost control.

 _Something isn't right with me._ The intrusive thoughts were not wrong. _Wrong wired brain._

His circuit was disconnected.

The mood swings. The ever-attentive feeling of being watched.

 _Something is not right, isn't it?_ He had asked once.

But he never outright dared to ask the question again. Because what would the answer have been worth? And who would he have asked? There was only a borrowed blurry memory, days lost to some paranoid heartbeat hunting him. Not sleeping, not eating, keeping a straight face.

 _You are perfect the way you are. You don't need any people claiming to help you. They are liars. They just try to change you. They'll say you are crazy. You don't want people to say you are crazy. You know what happens with crazy people._

Had his mother really said that? Had he imagined it? Hard to distinguish sometimes. The line was thin. He had long overstepped it.

Thomas talking to him on the phone at night, trying to fend off the things that crept along his spine.

Mare Barrow looking at his brother. **He always gets everything.**

The anger, the denial. The need to prove the control once and for all. The exploding loathing, the hatred.

 _Someone like you, who'll get the world, who deserves it, should never look back. Never apologize._

A night in a small apartment, pressing a body against a wall. Hands as hot as a breath on his neck. His nails digging into skin, teeth ripping at bare skin almost cruel. **Can't let go. Can't be alone. Can't think.**

His mother waiting for him when he finally let go. _Where have you been?_

 _Nowhere_ , he had said. _Nowhere important._

Because whatever happened it wasn't important. Not able to extinguish the way he thought. The way he lurked. The way he held onto some comfort in knowing he'd destroy all of their lives.

If people know you love something, they will try to take it away from you.

They had wronged him, all of them. All his life. Why not take the offer from the only person that had cared for him all his life and pay the debt back?

Lies are easy to maintain. Take a grain of truth and you can sell everything. He's learned it young.

Display of power. Of perfection. Strive for excellence.

And yet… Some rare second guesses. What is right, what is wrong? Hastily slipping away, because, in his head, there was order, and he would not let doubt eat at it.

The face of a girl he could not leave alone. That started to scowl when he was close. **If you'd loved me, I may have been able to stop.**

The image of a Red boy, tanned skin, and dark eyes, a broken tired voice. **You left me and I couldn't keep the façade up. Lost to my own head.**

The fist of his brother, ready to hit him. **I was your shadow and you didn't even realize. I could never be as good as you.**

 **Look what you all make me do. I burn what I touch.**

Things are different now. Or so he tells himself. He's found a moment of clarity, once in the middle of the night, looking at the white light of lightbulb. Trying to remember when it all started. He couldn't. The clarity cracking through a hollow hole.

 _You let go, you have the power to do that, and you trust people if they want to help you._ The familiar voice of his therapist says. _You don't need to burn. The world is not your enemy, Maven. You do not need to burn anything. You can try to accept if people see something good in you. Take time, and let it happen. Work on it._

There's no possibility that is true.

This evening is no exception.

Minimize the damage.

A rather incredulous effort.

He tried to tread careful tonight. Not make Thomas an easy target. It obviously failed.

The moment he leaves, Maven is aware he has lost. There's defeat heavy in the air. Thomas turns away and leaves. Perhaps that's for the best.

How long will this last anyway? How often can he count on the patience of the only person he truly tries to trust? How long until he gets tired? How long until he realizes that he actually CAN walk away?

With a wretched too long breath he turns away, not wanting to watch him step out. He should be glad this evening is at least over for one of them.

For a second there's only the silence of watching the city get buried in the haze of winter. Ferocious wind and snow hammering in hard forms against the glass, a storm of screaming white and grey. He feels cold for a second and crosses his arms.

It's a gaping abyss into the cold world.

Light mirrors in the glass, reflections shrill. He's not very surprised to see his mother appear next to him.

In the reflection, they look eerie similar for a second. Like they are one being in truth.

"He left." Maven informs her.

"Finally." she answers. "He was trying so hard to fit in for you. Though I wonder…how valuable is he?"

"Oh mother, you know the answer to that question. Thomas knows nothing." Mavens voice sounds flat. They have held this discussion before. "And even if he did, he isn't as airheaded as you always make him out to be. He keeps everything about them for himself. He's careful."

"You give him too much credit." She says, smiling thin. It's a threatening smile. There's little true amusement in it. He has seen her use it before. On business partners, on enemies, on his father. "I am certain people make sure he never is involved in any case. They remember your history."

"You give him too little."

She scoffs. "How touching. But that was to be expected, after your… _dallying_."

"He is a good person." It sounds defensive, the tiniest bit on edge. Not at all to his liking.

"He's persistent, I always gave him that." _Like dirt on a boot._

" He knows nothing." Maven repeats.

She turns away after that. Not leaving. Just not looking outward and directly anymore at his face.

"It is always the same with you." For a second he feels very small again, like the child he was, hiding behind her leg. She sounds like he's smearing crayon over a wall. "What's beneficial about this boy that makes you look back? That you cannot let go? That you grow soft and mellow and compliant when he's around? That's not how I raised you."

An encouraging smile, a hand that's warm and gentle, rough edges and ink, but nothing violent, just demanding, hoping, because if he's disappointed he will leave.

 _Not again, not again,_ a part of him screams.

He's not sure what it means. The fear of Thomas leaving or the way everything slips through his fingers.

His hand slips into the pocket of his suit. A bad habit. Bad habits return with an itching twitch of nervous energy, and he ought to know they need to be purged. Purge any sign of weakness to not sink into insignificance.

That's the moment the hand feels the edge of the fabric. He feels the bow tie slips through his fingers.

That bow tie.

It's black, with the faintest grey dots. Bow ties are cool. He wonders how Thomas has wrestled himself into it with his distaste for ties.

 _He makes you weak. I thought you finally realized that. You don't want to be weak, do you? You want to be in control. You need to be in control. Or do you prefer people looking down on you?_

He pulls the hand out of his pocket.

"Be a darling and keep an eye out. I need to talk to Samson, " she says, hand smoothing over his collar.

* * *

"Quite the show. Bleeding over the carpet, I swear-" A woman close by says. He watches her back, remembering her name, though his mother would say it's not worth it. Just one more flatterer. One more beggar at the doorstep. Her interlocutor on the other hand...Volo Samos face is unreadable. Nothing else to expect. ´"What was his name, that Red the Calore boy brought?"

"Did he leave the building?" Is all Samos asks. He ignores any question.  
"I have no clue."  
Something twitches in Maven's face. He tries to move slow. Wading through the swamp of groups, looks, it's like dancing.

There's a red smear of blood on carpet, from below the door that leads to the staircase.

A single shoe on the staircase. It lies abandoned , on one side. The sole is scratched and a little worn out because the person wearing them likes to slouch lazily. It doesn't take much smarts to recognize the shoe. Not when he has seen it fairly often on a person.

His eyes follow the stairs down when he picks it up. Blood stains the wall, below the metal line of the bannister. It's bright red in the white and unforgiving light. It's not much. A few sprinkled drops smeared along. The implication of the shoe and red blood crawls along his spine.

Not enough blood for some serious wound. But with a high fall, what does blood matter? A broken neck, a twisted leg, a damage moving through a ribcage, invisible but there. A thousand ways to get hurt or to die.

For a second he stands still, listening. No sound. Just blood rushing senseless through his veins.

"Thomas?" It's the voice reserved for the two of them alone, the whisper of a boy sitting on another bench enjoying a summer breeze at the water. It's weird to hear the voice in a place like this after this evening.

There's not a trace. He decides to take the elevator down.

A surprise waits for him inside. Another splotch of red blood smeared over an elevator button. Going down.

It means at least he hasn't broken his neck. He has not rolled down the stairs, a bundle of broken bones and lifeless limbs.

Everything is empty. Just polished floors and cameras. The ringning sound of the elevator doors opening.

Something in his gut turns when he sees a familiar huddled over frame.

"I think my phone broke." Thomas just says, one arm bend and hunched, the other holding the phone. Snow lies over his shoulders, half melting as he stands in the entrance. Not inside, but not completely lost to the world of ice.

There are cracks and holes in the glass of the dead black screen.

His eyes wander over Thomas face and something glimmers through the cracks. He can't keep the façade up right. Caught off guard.

It's easy to locate the blood is coming from a cut on his chin. A nasty rash thing, stone, and metal cutting through the skin in the fall most likely. It has seeped into the collar of his shirt. There's none on his hands anymore. The snow must have washed it away. Or he has swiped it off on the elevator button. Or his coat.

"Can I just borrow yours? Just a second?"

"Thomas. Come back inside."

"And I lost my shoe. Ha. I never liked those anyway. My sister bought them when my boots died." Thomas wiggles his toes, grimacing half a smile and half roughly concealed pain. "Even that Hobo had two shoes." Thomas stares at him like he's just had a revelation. "That homeless guy. You didn't see him? How spooky was that? Those eyes, dude."

"Come back inside." Maven hisses.

Frozen with one shoeless feet in a puddle he has the gall to _snort_. "For what? Give me your phone and I get lost."  
"You are wearing one shoe and fell down the stairs." He spells out the obvious.

Fell down, if that isn't well worded. They both know Thomas is lanky and stumbles. But what are the chances he has coincidentally sailed down the stairs on his own after the evening treated him exponentially bad?

"Suddenly you care?"

He could say _I always care._ He could count off the things he has done since they are back together. Fending off unwanted attention. Distracting his own mother. Trying to find out what is happening.

He could make a list of things he wants to do, things he has done, without anyone even noticing. He could lie easily. Normally Thomas sees through it, but in his current state, he would buy any lie.

Easy, opening his mouth and spouting half-truths and misconceptions. Negotiating not only with other people but with himself. Words are friends as they leave his mouth but enemies when they return to his head.

"Come back inside." He repeats instead. Almost just a whisper.

There's something in Thomas' face, mouth gaping open to speak. Never saying a word. Just returning inside. He shakes off the snow from his shoulders as good as he can with his arm still held twisted and turned.

"Your shoe. " is all he says and Thomas bents inconveniently to put it on, ignoring the attempt to help him out, even if he almost falls.

"You hit your head." Maven says.

"Obviously." Thomas snorts.

"Are you nauseous? Dizzy?" the interogation continues. His hands inspect Thomas jaw, slipping along the cut and turning his head.

"No it's not so bad." Thomas tries to reassure. "Just my arm. It's not even broken , I swear. Please. Just lemme call someone and I go home."

The hand stops inspecting his face and rests along the scratch on his chin, slender fingers curling along his cheek. Cold to the touch , but warm still somehow.

"Someone could see you." Thomas whispers, not without a decent amount of resistance.

"You're not going home." He dreads the next words that leave his mouth because if there is anything they both hate, and hate with passion, united, it's that _one_ thing. "You need to get into a hospital."

* * *

Thomas refuses to go. He's not having any saying.  
"Call my sister or something," Thomas mutters.  
"I will. Later."  
The snow has stopped falling for a moment. The light in the hallway is too bright and white.  
The smell is stinging in their noses. They both almost panic.  
He holds his hand when they sit on plastic chairs too long.


	19. All the little words

_Maven_

There's a grey spot in the middle of the white wall.

It's not bigger than a fingernail.

Perhaps it's dirt. Perhaps something else.

The grey spot is irritating. It's out of place. It should not stain the wall.

 _So we both hate hospitals ? Is it the smell for you too? I hate the way they smell._

 _Like death puts on too much perfume._

A wheelchair rolls by his small uncomfortable seat. The wheels screech too loud over the floor.

The clock on the wall ticks loud. Every second a flicker of frustration against his temple.

It's past midnight. He waits.

The grey spot seems to flex and move in his vision. It's doubled its size before he blinks and it's as big as a nail again.

It is so irritating he cannot stop looking at it.

 _A waste of time. You always waste your time._

He promised to try and care. With deepest gratitude.

Gratitude. What is that worth, exactly?

 _At least show some respect for Thomas._

The lanky back shoving in front of him, and the gritted teeth and stopping fist.

 **Now we show our true colors, don't we, brother?**

A voice informs someone through speakers to move their car. Some senseless names in a row. Another distortion. Static noises in a void.

Waiting . Waiting. Waiting.

 _You know you could just go. It'll take a while._

 **We leave each other in eclectic circles. Just to make sure no one can take it away.**

 _Isn't that essential surrendering?_

 **Staying is as much surrendering. Perhaps there's no winning.**

He wears his arm in a sling. The flames that flicker along the back of a hand hanging down rather lifeless. It's a simple black image on warm brown skin, but it shows the penmanship of Thomas all too well. The lines are clear and precise, not as messy as a sketch etched in paper with force. The lines evolved, moving forward, just as life.

Flames, because he **knows**.

With a slow motion he stands up, straight, no hunched shoulders, not anymore, purging that weakness just as any other physical flaw.

Eyes straight, no choice.

Thomas smiles. It's a smile reserved for people he knows. It's the trusting kind of smile. It rubs along his spine like the rough tongue of a cat, leaving behind questions he can't answer and the vile taste of mistrust.

Her eyes are friendly, with wrinkles and tired circles showing her age. Blond hair tightly pulled back, some strands have escaped the knot.

Sara Skonos looks past her prime and her clothes underneath the white coat are inherently cheap. His mother would be pleased to see her in the rundown ambulance, surrounded by blood and broken bones, crying and screaming. Too long shifts and too little money. It took her years to fight back and find her voice, get at least her approbation back. And now she's still stranded on the dead end.

 _If it were up to me, I'd cut her tongue out,_ he remembers the words, the lesson behind. _She overstrained my patience. She overstepped the line. Now her reputation, her life, everything is ruined. She'll spend her life miserable in some hole, shunned and ignored. If people overstep the line willingly , show no hesitation._

 **And when I told the world you are all traitors and liars, murderers and inherently bad people, I did not hesitate a bit. It felt good, a little, satisfying even, because people looked at you and saw what I saw, that you had wronged and left me.**

They look at each other, no denying they both exactly recognize the other person. To his surprise there's little anger in the way she looks. He'd have expected loathing hatred.

The smile has vanished from Thomas face by now. Maven can taste the confusion as much as the silent plea to just _not._

 _Get a grip, Mave, seriously._ He hears the flat tone.

Not the right time nor the right place to pick a fight. The faster they leave this despicable place the better.

All the little words that get stuck in a throat, wander back into his brain, impulse response to the sensation of twitching fingers or stinging eyes.

"Stay safe, Doc." Thomas tries to smile but there's something gray in it. Like the spot on the wall it's stained and dirty. Wrong.

In the desperate attempt to maintain some form of normality and display not the panic he could feel through linked fingers on chairs, he smiles all the time now. Not that it is very convincing nor reassuring.

Feet walking, body wanting nothing but to leave. They are moving mechanical. Poorly wired exhausted figures, one foot in front of the other after a long evening.

" No concussion. Just two weeks of a sling and some fuckery with my shoulder. And my face. But oh, who cares about that."

"Perhaps I do."

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Should have found a pretty girlfriend. People wouldn't have pushed anyone down then."

There's several answers to that.

 _It's hardly my fault you invited yourself._ That would boil down to a fight, in public, in the middle of the night, tired greyish circles under eyes and accusing words piling up guilt. Piling up guilt used to be a game between them. One had gifts, the other trashed them because he couldn't afford to take it. One trusted and the other shoved. One runs away the other chases. Even with truth pacts and honesty there's cowering of words turning foul. **Stubborn and almost too frustrating. It's not my fault you-**

 _You are already very much beautiful to me._ That would be truthful. It's not exactly a flirtation. More a simple fact. Regarding how ruined he looks and how little self confidence Thomas can express most days, it would not be taken well.

The answer that eventually leaves his mouth isn't exactly driven by logic. "Stay with me. "

"Over? At your place?" Thomas scoffs. "You know, I don't think your mother would like that."

"You live at the other side of the city. It's much closer."

"Wow. Let anyone hear that and they'll ring the alarm bells and get the pitchforks ready."

"Oh Thomas."

 **Accept. Please.**

There's a moment of very stretchable silence.

Dark eyes sliding over the piles of snow in dim white light in front of the window. "You're probably right. I don't wanna go home. Too many questions. Let's...talk this out or something."

* * *

They don't talk in the back of the car.

Thomas stares at the smashed screen of his phone once or twice. Sighing softly.

Snow rushes by and clashes against the world.

After moving out of the house and throwing his brother out, stripping him of most inheritance and claims, they moved again. Higher up, as he thought the first time he stepped into the elevator.

No one is at their home. No surprise. His mother has left a few snide messages after his explanations. An alarm beeps shortly before being disabled and the lights blink into existence, bathing the vast open room in almost silvery light.

With some bristling and coercion Thomas steps in and accepts getting peeled off his coat and shoes.

He wonders what someone sees that's living so different. The small room, the dissembled furniture, posters and flyers on the little free room.

"I need something to eat." Thomas stares almost longing. " That food was poison for anyone with allergies. You?"

It's almost absurd how perfectly in character a demand like that is for Thomas just escaping near death once again.

"Not hungry. Just a shower, perhaps." Cleansing the hospital stench off his skin and the thoughts out of his brain, for just the slightest amount of time.

"Have fun. Just need some help with the arm and all." It's innocent enough.

"No joke?" he asks. Thomas is silent. " No innuendo about showering with me?"

"Nah, showering with you isn't on my to do list today." Thomas shrugs." And even if you were on my to do list. You shower so hot it's like you're trying to boil me , Mave. I ain't no lobster."

He wordlessly takes his hand. Maven squeezes it.

"Food." Thomas reminds him. " And then clothes. I ruined your suit."

Nothing new. Thomas has bled on his own and Maven's clothes often. A cut, a nose bleed, and always bruises.

He has seen him naked or in any weird state of drowsiness and sickness. There shouldn't be the need to stare as he does, helping him slip out of the tie and the bloody shirt, dark red on white.

His thin form slipping into an oversized shirt. He is beautiful , was all he could think for a second. He is beautiful and he doesn't even know.

 _Beauty doesn't mean anything. Beauty is misleading. Don't make a fool out of yourself._

He still stops and follows along the lines, the curve of a neck and a shoulder.

Violet and blue bruises are blooming on his skin, over his ribs and the little hollow curves shadow and light cast over the line of his collarbone, the long limbs and smooth skin littered with ink and little scars. The destruction of something perfect leaves an angry echo.

 **It's an insult. A threat.**

"You stare again." Thomas says.

"I shouldn't have let you out of my sight a second." The words are hard, like something stuck in the back off his throat. But they are well deserved.

"Yeah. Probably. It was a shitshow."

"Don't do that again."

Thomas makes a face. "Don't turn again and I don't have to. I'm sorry. But I hope you're too."

With some careful moves of his hands he pulls a shirt over Thomas bruised face and arms, adjusting the sling again.

"You deserve better."

Thomas smiles. His smiles make things better, easier and they are gifts. They don't come at a price. They stay in a corner of his his heart and they glimmer with something soft. "But what's better than kissing you?"

"Oh,Thomas." He answers, the second time this night.

"Just...keep trying. Don't leave me hanging." The words are almost lost in the little distance between them.

He tries to catch them.

To keep them.

Thomas mouth is soft and lenient, and just the same as when he smiles the kisses stay, linger, wanting to be more. For a moment, just a moment, the little words in his head are silent.

"What happened to all your stuff?"

Thomas asks, his freed arm out the sling , leaning back on the bed. He remembers the first time he invited him over. Another bed, another time.

Despite the sling, the cuts and the bruises he looks like a smug cat in the blue hoodie, snuggling under a layer of blankets and making himself comfortable. It's definitely more space than the tiny mattress that makes them curl together, limbs tangled.

He looks around the blank walls , remembering how there used to be posters and banners.

It's almost clinical clean and sober.

"I still have some." Maven just answers, as if that explains the emptyness. There's a tiny shelf filled with books, and some bright envelopes peeking out. The only colour in the grey and black.

"Yeah. But this isn't what I remember. This used to be a nerdcastle."

 _Things change._

He looks back to the boy he used to wait for on a bench.

 **Things change.**

* * *

Only little time has passed. It's still dark outside. It is still early.

"Can't sleep?" a voice whispers drowsy, eyes barely open and visible in the dark.

He just produces an indifferent hum.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Later, maybe."

"You know where to find me." Comes the low answer, mixed with a little snort.A hand in his hair, fingers soft.

 _I always liked your hands, because they touch me. I like them because you fidget and have an awful lot emotion in them._

 _But the most l like them when you draw. They hold the pencil you were surly gnawing on again into that unhealthy habit. You hold pencils like they are poisonous snakes, ready to strike if you forget your cool. You hold them like frail porcelain, careful because they are precious to you. You hold them like a jewel, admiring what they can do if you just make the right move. A fine curve, a swing of your wrist and a stroke over paper._

 _Your hands were what drew me in. A boy in black, holes in his pants scribbling over a piece of paper with concentration._

 _People say your eyes are brown. They are brighter in the light. Like amber. Or caramel. Because you have a sweet tooth. And still stay this creature made of too lanky limbs and skinny bones._

 _I always liked falling asleep next to you. It is warm. And you wake up every so often making sure I did not leave. You know I am awake. You just stay and make sure I do too._

 _You hate coffee. You make sure there's one when I get up too early. You moan and complain. You are ridiculous and overdramatic. Shuffling bare feet on creaking floorboards, begging for another fifteen minutes to stay in bed._

 _And then you eat. The way you eat is as disgusting as it is endearing. How can someone with so little weight, whose bones I seem to feel sometimes when you hug me, eat so much?_

 _It takes a few big bites. That's it._

 _You can be messy. You kick dirty laundry over the floor into a pile because you are too lazy to pick it up. It's unorganized and I hate it._

 _You can be too loud. You laugh when you get embarrassed or even angry. Sometimes you snort._

 _You are a bad liar._

 _You look in the mirror and can't stand who you are._

 _You are..._

 **Persistent** _. Even though there was little good otherwise._

 _I always liked you made me try to care. Even with just being around._

 _I liked you tried to saw good. You thought I was redeemable enough to let me stay. You hoped something would change._

"You are a good person." Is all he says.

"You always say that." A voice half asleep whispers back.

He turns his head away. "Go back to sleep, Thomas."

* * *

A blanket of warmth surrounding him. It's alive and moving, slowly, with every breath.

It's a shield separating dreams and reality. Legs tangled with his own, the good arm weirdly slung around him.

Just a moment, just one second. Ignoring the thoughts in the back of his head, informing him of his weakness if he lets this past.

It is like a paper cut. Not deep enough to draw blood but directly damaging, cutting through skin with thin force. Forming a wound that irritates you enough to not block it out. Every time the paper cut gets touched, it stings again.

Just a phone ringing forces his attention away.

"You better tell me my brother is safe and sound." comes the threatening voice from the phone.

"And good morning to you too, Hannah," he answers, carefully peeling himself out of Thomas limbs completely. There's almost something charming about her anger. It stems from concern. It's almost mild.

 _She absolutely despises you. Who's to say she won't turn her brother around soon enough too?_

"Is Thomas with you or not? I need to talk to him."

"He's fast asleep. I'd advise to let him."

"I don't normally give a bullcrap about your opinion. Is he okay?"

Yes, very charming. Such a sweet person. Such a pleasure to have someone insult him in the early morning.

"Why bother having my phone number then?"

"Thomas is terrible with numbers. He writes everything down and leaves the paper behind."

"That does sound like him."

"If he's hurt, I swear I'll-"

Threats. Always threats. But mostly empty ones, led by a rash emotion.

Threatening her back would be fairly easy. All the things he knows form a pattern, strings to pluck. He knows what she eats, where she works, he knows she's trying to protect her family and her world view is idealistic to the core.

 _Threatening people is very, very easy. Words that aren't exactly lies, but not the truth. Words that are sharp little knives, cutting through the skin and leaving nasty little wounds._

 **Like paper cuts?**

"It could be way worse than it actually is."

" What did you do?!"

 _What did you do again, Maven?_

 **A mess, this is a mess.**

 _What happened to you, Mavey?_

 **It's not- I lost control. YOU should have known. You should have.**

"Why, I tried to kill him. " he mocks. "Isn't that obvious, dear Hannah?"

 **Because for you I am that kind of person. For you it's simple. You have that crystalline mindset of good and bad. I can't even blame you.**

There's a long exasperated breath. "I didn't say that. And…oh fuck it. Just make sure he's coming home later. We're invited at our parents at seven. You care about schedules at least."

Almost a compliment. Curious.

"I'll get him there. We both know he hates dinner with your father."

"Yeah. Yeah, he does. Alright." She sounds confused. As if she can't believe she actually agrees with him.


	20. A gush of air

_**[AN] Sorry I am late. As always thank you for the comments , I finally got out of hospital! I have the last of four POVs planed but can't decide who to feature. So far I have written snippets for Elara, Shade, Mare, Farley and Iris. I' ll maybe bring one or two back later in another arc. For now though I really cannot decide who to write. Making continuing a bit harder. Who would you like to see?**_

* * *

 _Cameron_

It's afternoon and she's been busy all day, fixing things, promising to fix other things, even just planning to fix things. Meeting's not until tomorrow, whatever the news are. Still no call from Thomas or Hannah. Her feet tap on the ground a few times before she realizes it.

Of course, Nanny notices her roaming around. She gives her that look again. Cameron chooses to ignore it.

She meets him at the door, putting his jacket on.

"Didn't know you were still here." She mutters and wraps herself into the woolen scarf. It scratches along her neck. She has to sweep her hair from under it to adjust it. It's a little frizzy from the dry air.

" I was just leaving," Kilorn says. "Meeting with Mare."

Does he still have a thing for her or has that died? And why does she even care? None of her business, really. Romance and stuff, it is not her cup of tea. Too sweet, too stressful.  
She makes a little disgusted noise in the back of her throat. It's not like she hates Mare Barrow. That's a strong word. If she had more time and optimism, they could be really good friends. She has none of it and they tumble and sass over each other in annoyance pretty often.

He seemingly waits for an answer. Or a question. She doesn't give any of it. "Are you coming along?"

"I just need some air." She brushes him off. "You two have fun or whatever."

Company seems out of question. She feels tired, head hurting a little from all the worrying.

He reads between her creased brow. "Sure you don't want to come along, Cam?"

"Yeah." She shrugs. It's toothless right now. She's not even trying to be snide.

Their shoulders brush when he opens the door.

He gives her a last look out of green eyes. "See you tomorrow."

"Sure." She answers and strides into the cold.

She's wearing the thickest shirt she has, with holes in the sleeves and a little stain on the collar, but no one will ever see it as long as she keeps her jacket on.

Face and hair hidden under a hood as good as possible, she moves through the mess at her feet. The snow is long gone from pristine and white. Instead, it's brown and black. Half molten into water and mud it soaks into the hem of her pants and tries to work through her boots. She's had it worse. Still. The wind bites cold and vicious.

The wind howls, tiny icicles on her skin. She creeps along the alley right behind the station. Trains are running irregularly. If it's the weather or just limitations to watch over the flock of sheep, who knows? There are no excuses. Just bright orange letters on a wall telling how little chances there are to move freely. The checkpoint is still there. But after the final solutions are dragging and there's seemingly no resistance the forces have been cut or moved to another place. The remaining police and security are bristling and foul-mouthed. They are ready to hit. She'd be happy to answer. It's always a little gamble with her papers. She'd not use the train if she didn't have to. Cars are worse. She used to drive alongside her father sometimes. The thought of the little pause, the way his hands were resting on the wheel and the way she used to listen to the radio and wait for him to say something, all that gone for good, that's worse than any checkpoint.

On a Sunday afternoon in this part of town, there's not much to see. Her figure fights the wind relentlessly. The clear air helps to cleanse her head a little. Just enough to shush the tiredness in her bones.

She stops here and there, with some blinking memories that dive out of her mind. A corner she used to hang around last summer. That parking lot where she got into a fight. The memories in this city are small. She's been here for a too short duration of time to have too many. All of them are still tied to Morrey or Thomas. With one attested and locked up and the other missing, it's hard to find something about it she still likes.

Sure, there are other people, good people. Weird people. People that care and people that try at least.

Some are decent enough. She's still not sure many of them would call her a friend.

She's not sure why she sits down on a bench. Her fingers feel cold in the pockets of her jacket. Her ears tingle a little. The cold seeps through every fiber of the world. Tries to conquer it.

The bench doesn't hold her for long. She returns to the alley behind the station. In the dark, she remembers, there used to be patrols and curfew. People are still afraid to go out. The officials say crime rate has vapidly exploded. You get arrested for everything. You just need that look.

If you're silver you're lucky. Lucky, lucky bastards. As always.

If summer was the time for fighting and autumn was the time for laying low and planning, hiding and ducking, what will winter bring? So far everything that it has brought is too little information, freezing and standing still, turning in circles. Sure, some small victories and losses. Still, it takes its time.

Everything always takes time.  
Makes you realize how small your wishes are in the corner of the one big that everyone says they wish for. For now, the cold wins. She retreats as the light turns low. The sky gets dark and black, heavy. Without a single star in the sky.

The door opens with a hissing sound, letting a gush of wind and snow inside. She stomps off most of the snow before closing the door shut. She kicks off her boots. Her socks are wet too. Her toes feel a little frozen. Just like the rest of her body.

She wiggles them slightly before peeling off the layers of clothes around her slowly, letting the warmth seep in as she makes her way up to her room.

"I'm back." She yells. Not particularly sure who she is yelling at.

Her phone buzzes.

 **Hannah:**

 ** _Brother found and retrieved. But u won't believe me what's happening?_**

She is glad no one can see she's as relieved that he's alive as pissed for the casual way he always returns.

Her phone buzzes again and she looks unwillingly at a row of pictures as she steps up the stairs with her clothes tugged under her arm.

Thomas is pale with a cut along his jaw and a sling around his arm. Of course, he'd get in trouble without someone having his back. Because that toad of a boyfriend doesn't have the spine for it. He only has the spine for harassment and lies, as it suits him.

As if to prove her point she scrolls over the next image. Thomas with the cut on his chin leaning over, half grimacing half smiling, with the asshole next to him. It's the over exaggerated fun pose Thomas can strike when he's super uncomfortable. Almost like his body isn't sure how to even exist with his thoughts in a tight knot.

She's never seen them together. For the best probably. Those blue eyes always made her think of a shark. Now they seem tired mostly, with shadows and circles eating on the form. Not like she's pitying him.

If Thomas had a grain of self-confidence he'd let go and look for someone who treats him with respect. But he's afraid no one else will ever take him. He thinks they are some star-crossed lovers. Meant to be. He runs back and never listens. If she'll ever meet him in person, she's sure she'll break his face. If Barrow and his brother leave anything for her. She feels a little sick. It's partly her fault he's back together. If she hadn't made that picture of him he'd maybe never have gotten in touch again. And everyone could have skipped a lot of tears and fuckery.

So they are hanging around as they always do. No big deal. Then she notices that there's a pot of flowers in the window behind them. They don't own flowers in the apartment. And the window is wrong too. The next picture is confirming her suspicions.

Thomas mother was always nice to her. She reminded her a bit of her own. It hurt only a little. She is nice and firm, a good one. Of course, she'd be nice to someone Thomas cares about. They still stand in front of the window, snow whirling on the other side. The kitchen, Cameron is sure. Thomas is gone but Hannah is like a paparazzi. She holds onto Calore perfectly, hunched shoulders and grey splotches on his neck. She can't really decide if he looks a little terrified or if she just imagines that.

She invited him inside. Hannah writes. Cameron can imagine the exasperated sigh and palms pushing away her long hair. It's withering white on the tips slightly, as Barrows. Seems to be a Stilts thing.

Sure enough, when she first saw Thomas and Mare together, she was sure they were somehow related. They had some sort of look to them. It wasn't even really visible. Sure they both have similar hair, wear dark clothes and were tanned from the sun, but that was it. It was more of something that went down under the skin. They both have nice comebacks for her slinging slurs around. They both can be pretty good at annoying her. Thomas is easier to go with and talks a lot more than Mare. But that's perhaps because they are much closer.

"We used to hang at the same places," Thomas said once. "And Hannah was swooning for her brother for a while. Heartbreaker that one. Our mothers make jokes about marriage sometimes. But I don't think she ever really noticed me before...before Maven. I was just some guy along the lines. I was always some guy before I ran away from home. No one really saw me before I decided to stop giving fucks. And the rest..we know how that went, Cookie."

No one knows life is shit and hard better than Cameron. She doesn't wish for it to be rainbow with happy sparkling sprinkles on top. But if the shitshow could hold on a second, give everyone a chance to catch up and throw some punches, it would be appreciated.

The phone buzzes again.

 _ **She invited him for dinner ?! Dad is like boiling... And Tommy is no help**_

That's shit for you. She thinks but doesn't write. What does she expect Cameron to do about it? She's unable to help her own brother. She can't do anything. It's frustrating and wrong.

With a long breath, she decides to settle on the bed, toes slowly returning to live.

 _At least he didn't kill your brother._ She answers.

 _ **Ida just shakes hands with his royal Highness like they're old business partners? Mom told her to be really polite and that's what she's doing**_

 _ **Thomas is laughing his ass off. It's kinda cute tho** _

The thought of the toothy smile and the disheveled braid on a little girl shaking hands and trying really hard to be friendly makes Cameron huff. She remembers the heart on her cheek when they sat together on the table and Ida grew bolder and cheeky with every passing second.

She sprawls her long legs over the mattress and yawns. The night was too short and the days keep getting longer. She knows she will probably still not sleep very much. At least it's warm up here. Ada's side of the room is empty. She listens to the heartbeat of the house for a while. Creaking pipes as someone turns on the water in the bathroom. The streaming sound of a shower. Feet tapping over a staircase, rattling of dishes downstairs. It's always busy. There's always someone moving in the day. Maybe part of why she wanders around at night.

 _ **Mom is literally melting over Maven** _

Hannah sure isn't too happy. Cameron can empathize.

 _ **He made a joke about Thomas eating habits and they talk about all of Thomas allergies?**_

 _ **She's planning their wedding. Help me, Cameron.** _

_Congrats on your new brother in law._

For a while, there is no reply and she puts the phone away, plugging the charger in. Sometimes days come and go, striding by her window. Sometimes they run and everything seems to be happening at once.  
If she had to make a map to explain the weird way everyone is interwoven with the other, it would take a while.  
Watching them all enter the pit for a fight, getting drawn right in, that's enough shit. And she's got to look out for herself too.

The phone buzzes on the table, loud noise on the wood. Seems the live ticker will continue.

 _ **Dad just started roasting. Maven's doing a good job dodging, gotta give him that.**_

Don't give him anything, she thinks, but then she starts imagining the interrogation. Thomas father can be brash and harsh. He's not a loud man. He judges you silently before asking you questions that hurt and denying things he does not want to acknowledge. Old school, hard and not particularly well adjusted from wartimes, someone called that generation. She wonders how people will regard their generation. If they will say the same. Despite all the things that have turned, some things have gone worse. And if you ask those high and mighty politicians things will never change at all until this world is done. Or not to the benefits of the small people.

 _ **Hey. We just had the racism and homophobia meltdown. Not sure Maven will not burn the house down. He's really quiet and shits it is freaking me out.**_

 _ **Mom looks like she wants to divorce Dad. My sister tries to ignore everything. Thomas is done.** _

_Your father is a dick._ Cameron writes back and tries to imagine the disaster. Cameron has spent too many time with Thomas and his sister. She can see how they bent under the pressure. One sighing softly, hands tangling in long hair. The other awkwardly trying to laugh the pain away until he is numb enough to move again, still spending too much time in bed the next days.

It's a good thing one isn't involved at all and the other turns up slightly infrequent. Good hearts don't necessarily make good fighters, do they?

For a second she thinks of her brother again. It's empty without him. There was always something she could hold onto. She could turn and see him. Her hands curl into fists. And then her thoughts shift to something else entirely. To the memory of a shoulder brushing hers, legs folded, a tawny blond head and green eyes, watching her work, telling her to worry another day.

She doesn't know why she suddenly thinks of Kilorn. It's irritating her a little. She's glad the messages still keep coming to distract her.

Complain department, that's the real and right term for how she feels. Wrapping herself inside her blanket without changing clothes, she just waits for sleep to come, irregurlar answering texts and waiting for the next bad news.


	21. The usual suspect

_Thomas_

His dreams are a wild mix of nightmare material. Nagging panic from the hazy memories. Weird sounds and voices.  
The sweet taste of humiliation. The stench and white walls of a hospital.  
Elara too, smiling. Like the cat that got the cream.  
And his family, of course. Mixed with the face of his father.  
Thomas father stares in an indecisive mixture of disbelief and irritation. There are dislike and disappointment behind the glare Thomas receives. Even after all the times, he has received that glare, it still hurts.  
When he wakes up on the mattress, half buried between a pile of blankets and mismatched pillows, he finds himself alone.

The music seeps through cracks along the headphones and the head wearing them. Black hair curling along ears and a neck stubborn. It's not as much disheveled as Thomas hair must look like, but still not perfect in shape. A little like someone pushed it back while thinking. It's the only sign of too many hours awake and too little sleep. At least from this angle.

It's hard to determine how late it is with the white light reflected from the snow. There's a cup set right to his hand resting on the table. Occasionally typing, one hammering second and a changing flickering text or image.

Thomas actually admires the concentration. He can barely concentrate on things he doesn't like. Maybe he is just too lazy. He forgets things and stumbles. He can't even remember his own phone number or other combinations. He has the same password for everything. And that's so easy to guess it is a good thing he's too unimportant for people to hack into it. There are too many notes pinned with bright magnets on the fridge that prove it. Lanky and uneven letters climbing on paper, half-forgotten.

Maven is not reacting when Thomas closes the door, bare feet on the cold floor. His shoulder hurts like hell, but it's not the worst he ever had. When you get in your share of fights or accidents you learn some things about pain. The best thing is that it will just go away. It takes time and it will stop hurting. Can't say that for all sorts of pain.

"Hey, pretty boy." Thomas tries voice only slightly louder than a whisper not to wake up his sister too.  
She's still mighty pissed about the whole deal. Family dinner, and his disappearance before. No need to wake her up now and make her even more angry.  
 _This weekend was the worst,_ he decides, not even wanting to think about family dinner anymore.

Sure, his mother was nice, she really tried. She always tries. He's a terrible son and a runaway, she'd probably do anything to get him to stay and not turn away again.  
She asked Thomas some inappropriate questions, but that's just how she is. She doesn't mean anything ill by it. And she was sensible enough around Maven. Even though he was uncomfortable and a little thrown off.  
Remembering Elara again, Thomas has never been gladder his mother is a considerate and friendly woman. She can spit fire, telling his father off later that evening proved that. And she didn't let anyone off the hook. Persistence is a feature you probably need with kids that do what they want, running havoc and turning up in prison or at dangerous protests. And patience. For the second when your husband starts his talk and won't let go. And gets more insulting with every second.  
His little sister isn't to fault. She is just a kid that was trying really hard to be polite. Also, Maven is terrible with children. And Ida was terrible unsure how to even react around that. They watched each other like one could grow tentacles any second. Kind of cute too and his stomach hurt from laughing too much when Ida just straight up shook his hand way too long.

Hannah was indecisive at worst, not even jabbing that much at Maven. She hates his guts, no way to overlook that with the way her nose crinkles and she turns away. But she kept her quiet through most of it. Her father probably expected her to jump right in. She didn't. Probably was too busy documenting the turn of events. And she texted the whole evening, he doesn't want to know who.

He considers Cameron and some other suspects, and the thought isn't to his liking. He still has to face consequences for disappearing to Cameron. And she was probably going mildly crazy from worry, punching things and wandering around.  
Would be a good thing if the texting wasn't related to him at all. She's a grown ass woman, she could be dating someone.  
Now that he thinks about it he has never even considered the thought. She's working all the time, and if she is not at work she's up and away. Fighting, protests, discussions, you name it, she's around.

Who would someone as busy as his sister even date?

Some possibilities. She got a raise. As some assistant, she could smooch someone silver. But then again she's got ideals. Maybe she'd be too engrossed to fall. She also hangs around the crooked house. One of the guys there. She's friends with Cameron and Ada at least. Maybe one of them spills it when he is around next time.

Or maybe he should accidentally bump into Farley again and pester her or Shade. But he'd probably loose more from that encounter than he could earn. He misses them. But they don't take too good on his situation. He feels weird around Farley. Like he has just kicked her and doesn't even realize it.

Or what if he's from the Stilts? His sister spends more time at home than he ever did. And their mother is friends with Barrows Mom, and she used to have a crush on one of Barrows brothers.

Fruitless effort to guess. She'd not tell him anyway. Not as long as Maven is still around. She has severe paranoia even having him around, though she tries her best not to show it too much.

For a moment, Thomas studies Maven in his kitchen. He's somehow accustomed to the sight by now. It took some time. He melts into the background by now, not sticking out anymore. Sure, it's still too little space. It's still too stuffed. It's bright and not at all how Maven would probably decorate anything. But it's home. What would Thomas ever give to keep him here? Because he was home too when he was homeless and he wants him to be now too.

There is something endearing to it now. How he just rummages through the hanging cupboards to find a mug. Or just uses the laptop he shares with Hannah and sits there.  
This freaking table has seen a lot of things and people these past months.

"Hey," Thomas tries again, but the music drowns his voice and pushes it away from Maven's figure on the table. He taps against the shell of the headphones.

With a snap the figure at the table turns the head, eyes scanning his surroundings.

"You said five minutes," Thomas jokes. "I miss you stealing my blanket."

With a last welling up, the music stops and headphones are removed. "The weekend was so busy I had to finish some things."

Thomas pulls back the chair next to Maven and sighs low. He agrees with the busy part.

The image on the screen looks like a much cleaner and bigger apartment building than the one Thomas lives in. Not as fancy as the one he's currently in, but still, he'd probably need two more jobs to get rent over.

"You finally decided you wanna move in a place of your own?" he asks, studying the picture of the clean high ceiling and smooth open kitchen. "A little big for one person. But then again look how you live now."

With one swift move, the tab disappears.

"It's… something like that. " Comes the pondering answer. "Some unlikely plans for the future."

 _I'd move in with you there_ , Thomas wants to say. Not so unlikely.  
His heart makes a happy little jump at the assumption. But he doesn't say it. Baby steps for cowards. Patience. This weekend was a mess. They have to work through all of it. But he doesn't feel like discussing family dinner right now.

"Plans at least mean you try to get forward," he says instead. "Forward is good. Forward is progress, right?"

The only answer is an indifferent hum, but perhaps that's for the best.

For a while, they breathe next to each other, a steady rhythm.  
Thomas pulls his chair a little closer in between breaths until he could just already hop over on Maven's lap.  
He only stops when a pair of blue eyes look over. "How is your arm?"

"I had it worse." He slings his good arm around the still form on the chair. "Someone tried to kill me, right?" Thomas asks. "I don't just make it up? Someone shoved me down the stairs."

"We can agree someone wanted to hurt you."

"Yeah we know I didn't slip." Thomas feels the need to confirm. "The elevator wasn't coming up. It was so angry. I just wanted out." He tries to remember. It's a little dizzy. But is that the alcohol or the fall?

"I saw the blood. For a second I was sure I'd find your body." He says and it's a cold whisper on Thomas skin.

"I have a thick skull and a lot of luck." Thomas tries to reassure him, pressing his nose against the skin just below his ear, breathing against the crook of a neck. A vein hammering, a pulse rushing. The only visible sign of how upset Maven is.

"No need to test it. You'll never be in the same room as any of those people ever again."

His hands grip Thomas harder for a moment. There's something in the way his eyebrows knit together and his mouth forming a thin sharp line that screams about bloody murder.

"Never say never," Thomas huffs, trying to lighten the mood before they drift into dangerous lands soon enough again. "Just don't pretend you don't care. Next time I'll be the boyfriend. We could be the scandal of the party."

The hand holding onto him lets go and Thomas retreats to his own chair.

Maven frowns slightly. "No."

"I hope there's better food next time." He sighs. "I'd get shoved again for something really tasty."

"No." Maven repeats.

"And I should wear my bowtie." Thomas insists. Where is that blasted thing, by the way? Did he ever get it back?

"No." Something inside him seems to be broken on repeat but the decline isn't as insistent as before. He sounds bemused.

"There should be dancing."

"I hope not."

Thomas snorts. "Have you seen me dance? We never went out for you to witness THAT."

The thin lines of anger are smoothing quickly, leaving only sharp cheekbones and an almost amused tug on lips. "I occasionally watched you flailing through the room when you think no one would see. But that's not the dancing that'd be occurring."

Now he positively laughs imagining waltzing through the room.

He looks at his hurt arm. Things can never be easy, can they? Lucky enough he didn't have to stay in the hospital. Or that there was a very pleasant Lady he trusts enough not to freak out when he had to be alone.

"I guess there's no sense in reporting it." Or even talking about it.

Blue eyes freckled with silver follow his look, and there are gears turning. Thomas can almost feel the thoughts rushing through that brain.

"With highly decorated members of our society in the same room? Some of those members are allegedly leading political stances. And head figures of the police were there too." Almost nonchalantly, like they are discussing the weather.

"No guessing without knowing who did it anyway." He shrugs.

There's another long lingering silence. It turns heavy. Maven just holds his cup and pretends to look into the dark liquid.

"Some people might think this is my doing." It comes unexpected.

"You talked to my sister, didn't you?" Thomas scoffs.

"She's most certainly not alone in the belief it'd do harm to you ."

 _Old asshole Maven could pull it off. The one lying and stabbing people in the back. The one that's not trying. But you're not doing that anymore, are you?_

He doesn't even want to give the thought a second. It doesn't deserve it.

"You weren't helpful that evening. But it was my own fault too. And everyone was an asshole. Except pretty Red and Iris."

If there was a red alarm springing into life behind Maven , complete with a howling siren, his sudden interest could not be more clear. "Iris?"

"Yeah, has crazy nice grey eyes, pretty polite, and her tattoos are awesome?"

"I wasn't aware you two were acquainted." There's something sharp in the line of his mouth again for a moment, but it fades way too fast for Thomas to identify the cause of it.

Thomas shrugs. "Picked up the papers after the bullshit confetti. Not like we are besties or something. Why is that a problem?"  
 _Because silver and red don't mix well, you idiot,_ a voice in his head still insists. He feels a little sting looking back at the evening over the skyline and the way people treated him like dirt again.

Maven has regained control over his poker face again.  
"Curious. That is all."  
He's not telling something. It's unnerving.

Thomas doesn't want to spell out the most obvious suspect. He still does.  
"We didn't talk about your mother, Mave."

"Ah, well. You always assume my mother tries to kill you."

 _And I am crazy for thinking about it?_

Thomas makes a face.

"She said stairs were slippery and she didn't want me to get hurt. And a few days later somehow I get pushed down after she threatens me again? I don't need to be super clever to know that's obvious."

"My mother loves to threaten people, especially if she thinks they are weak. But that was a very sloppy execution. She isn't sloppy, whatever you may think about her."

He doesn't even deny the possibility of a murder. A shiver runs over Thomas' spine at the prospect of Elara just murdering people. But then again she'd probably have people do it for her. Or she just ruins lives otherwise and plays the long run. He can imagine her finding more solace in that than just killing and letting everyone off the hook.

"Maybe she had another plan but it somehow didn't carry out. Also, she was talking about family business with me before she left. You got a whole murderous lot of kin."

"Someone could have probably tried to impress her. I have a few suspects I'd not rule out. Some lack the flair and sensitivity to maneuver without getting caught in their ambitions. She could just tell them how _unfortunate_ it would be if you would get hurt and they'd gladly try and please her."

"Your family is fucked up." Thomas shakes his head.

"Let's not analyze our families. Not at this hour." The screen dies slowly, and in the dim grey light Thomas could swear Maven is a ghost, slowly wandering away from the kitchen table. Almost soundless and without any colour.

"Sleep a bit?" Thomas gets up, following into his small room.

"Keeping you company, at least."

"Alright." Thomas whispers, slipping under the covers. There's the offer of an outstretched arm this time, and when he takes it and slides right into a warm embrace, a mouth gets caught on his jaw, a little fluttering kiss beside his cut and tense shoulders slowly relaxing.


	22. Happy hugs

_Cameron_

Some days are mediocre at best and growing on nerves at worst. There doesn't even need to be a event, no takedowns or police. Sometimes, a day just immediately starts a little different than any other and it takes a toll for the rest of it.

Her throat is a little sore when she wakes up. Great start, having the bad feeling to maybe get sick. With the heating, plumbing and basically anything in the house falling apart on daily basis, it wouldn't surprise her so much.

She grabs some clothes from her drawer. Her favorite shirt has another hole. The other one is dirty. She holds tight to the black and grey shirt with the burn holes on the sleeves and shuffles over the floor.

The bathroom is steamy and humid, air clinging to her sore throat.  
At least it is not occupied. The bathroom situation is problematic. But that is what happens when you have too many people in too little space.

The tiles are wet. Her socks are now wet too. She makes a disgusted noise. Half the room is flooded with little puddles.

Someone left their wet towel. She wants to snatch it up, find the culprit and beat them with the towel until they understand that's not how any of this should work.

The next problem comes fast when she steps in the shower.

The water is ice cold. And it does not warm up.

She throws a hand of it in her face, trying to ignore the shiver when it runs down her bare back. Cold streams of water tickle her skin. Goosebumps and shivering as she rinses her hair under the stream.  
She's done fast.

Her eyes stare back unimpressed from the mirror, and her wet hair curls along her neck.

As fast as she can she gets dressed again, getting rid of the wet towels and the socks.

It's warmer on the ground floor. Heat is working somehow at least, still. Reliable work, one could say.

There's commotion in the house, hurrying steps, and fast talking. She moves down the staircase.

"Something's not working again with the water." a voice yells from upstairs.

"Cameron, can you-"

Cameron can you this, Cameron can you that, it is like people want her to wipe their asses. What's next? Changing a lightbulb?

"Get your shit together!" she shouts upstairs, annoyed before she turns around. Still, her mind is half at her tool belt and the crooked house aches under the weight, breathing hard.

Nanny watches as always. Today it is driving her crazy.

She feels trapped.

"What?!" Cameron feels the need to snap. There's the tiniest rest of coffee. Cameron takes it without mercy. Maybe just so no one else gets it. After they took the water away and left that mess it seems appropriate.

"You're foul today." Nanny just says, slurping from her cup by the stove.

As if that's something new? That little old woman always tells her she's rude but now she's foul?

"Didn't like how your meeting turned out yesterday?"

There's no good news anyways. The only news about people being arrested or let go, for now. The only news about the checkpoints and police patrols. And some bad news about a meeting in some warehouse getting busted. No one got hurt, and people ran away, quick enough. It's a small thing, but it's good no one got hurt or killed. There's too much of that and it doesn't ever stop.

Some new dirt on the legal side and some dirt on their favorite people high up in their tower. But not enough, never enough.

Not one word about her brother. But lots and lots of talk about that little piece of shit Thomas is dating, about his mother, of course. Some yelling, some bad slurs, and insults, but mostly empty and tiny discussions. Cameron doesn't blame people. Not really.

She says it's their fault, but repeating them takes the spine out of their arguments.

"I don't ever like how that's going," Cameron answers, sinking onto the chair next to Nanny, half turned around so she can watch her.

Nanny's slurping again, hair loose and a little frizzled from the dry heat in the kitchen.

Cameron waits for the next question.

"Is it because Kilorn's moving in?" Nanny delivers.

"I don't really care who moves in, this house is full of people either way." He's around anyhow, she thinks, as if it makes a difference. Probably better to have a roof over your head even if people snore too much for you to relax.

"Something with Thomas?"

"Nanny, stop bothering me." Cameron huffs. She sinks deeper into the chair. "I fucking swear."

The old woman isn't impressed in the slightest. She has the uncanny power to simply look over the fact Cameron is sneering and spitting and biting. "I'm not bothering you. You came to _me_."

Cameron can't really fight that.

"You get him back." Nanny promises. Her voice is friendly enough. Cameron stares at her for a blank second. "It takes time, but someone will find a way and you will get him out of that horrible place."

"Don't promise anything just to be nice, Nanny." is all she answers, thinking about rough hands holding her down, about bottles of glass thrown in her face, stabbing her brother into his gut. She thinks of her parents again and wonders if there ever was anything to be done. "Because that's not worth so much."

They sit a while in silence. Cameron cultivates her annoyance and keeps it tight.

Later that day, of course, Thomas stands on the doorstep.  
He still wears his arm in a sling. And he stares at her expectingly with rough red spots on his nose and his cheeks, wrapped in his hood and scarf.

"Hey Cookie."

Don't 'Hey Cookie' me, she thinks and wants to punch and hug him at the same time. But with the well of annoyance inside, it leans more to punching. She steps to the side and lets him in.

There's bruises and cuts, just as on that stupid pictures Hannah bombarded her with. Still, she has seen him worse, with split lips and misery you could just drown the sling and the nasty cut on his jaw, he looks good. Almost happy. And not just fake happy. He wears a blue hoodie, a bright icy spot in his usual black.

She lets it go by without a comment for now.

"You could have called." she just huffs.

"The best things in life come unexpected," Thomas says, a quote from some inspirational post. It should be straight out purged, letter for letter until no one can remember such a shit quote exists. He knows it. He gives her that smile. She makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "Also, I have a new phone and still need to catch up on numbers."

He struggles with taking off his shoes. After she watches him jump and turn he almost falls flat on his ass before he finally gets done with it.

They settle on her bed. He accepts her foul mood, but he can't stay silent for too long. His hand taps up and down on his knee. His feet sway a little. A ball of words and energy. He can be quiet when he wants to. When he really likes something, he will enjoy it silently before blabbering forever. Today's not a serious day, and not a patient one, it seems.

"You ok?" he asks, his hand is still tapping on his knee. Her eyes follow it.

"I'm ok."

He doesn't believe her. But that's alright. He doesn't need to, as long as he doesn't bother her with more questions.

There isn't some easy wisdom to hand out. They both know that. They spend the days as they have them, always, since the time he wouldn't leave her alone in the summer. Together, somehow. Even with her bad mood and his hurt bones, they are intact enough to breathe, and they'll be tomorrow.

"How's everyone?" His hand stops tapping, starts again after a few breaths. Lowrhytmic thumps on his knees.

"Tired. Angry. Shit weather and hiding do that to you." She thinks very carefully about how much she can tell him. She won't say anything about the meeting yesterday. That much has Farley etched into her brain with that eyes.

She didn't disagree, partly because she'd have to tell her that the information Cameron has relied on to have at least a tiny spark of a clue about her brother came from Thomas and that asshole, and you don't just tell something like that. That's a bomb carefully sat down instead of letting it explode.

"How's Mare?"

Cameron shrugs.

She doesn't speak about the way Barrow was burying daggers right into everything because she's fucked up from running and hiding. What does Thomas want to hear? That she misses him around? Some gossip about relationships going on?

Last time I saw that silver scrub he was positively angry and they fought for a bit. Hush hush enough, but still angry. Not that she cared if they break up or marry. As long as they leaft her alone.

"Do you think she is still mad at me?"

Cameron is sick about hearing people whine to each other about some drama they can't resolve or don't want to.

 _Please just stop talking to me about it all, my head can only take so much drama._

"Talk to her yourself. Seriously. Or ask Kilorn when he's around."

He looks very interested in that. It isn't the same interest as before when he was desperately hanging on that crush. "You dating Fish Boy now or what?"

"What?" She blinks at him as if he has just turned into some strange creature. Maybe he has.

Thomas scratches his chin. "I mean he's been around and you spend the entire weekend? You seem kinda close?"

"I like spending time with him, he's not so annoying." True. They aren't as close as it seems. He hangs around the house so often he might as well live here. And he's really not that terrible. He can be charming and funny, even for someone with her broken sense of humor and her low bullshit tolerance. They both know how best friends can be and still stick up. They're good. If they aren't one thing though, it's some sort of cuddly romantic dating shit. At the thought of dating anyone, she gets a strange knot in her stomach.

Thomas just smiles. "Did you ever date someone, Cookie?"

"I am NOT dating anyone. Ever." she tries to brush him off.

"It's cool with me," he promises. "He's a good guy. And I never really was that interested. You know what I mean."

"Thank you for your approval, asshat," she says, less snarling, more dry. He's an idiot. But he's HER idiot. "But I am not dating Kilorn. So snap out of it."

"Okay." He looks away, but his face makes that grimace when he's about to burst out laughing. "I'm just saying-"

"You're saying nothing anymore."

Her flat hand gives his arm a little shove.

He looks up at her. Keeps it together. For a second or so.

When he bellows into a fit of laughter, she scoffs softly. His laughter is one of his redeeming qualities. Most times it is infectious and loud, coming from some fiber of his being that means everything it does.

"How's Farley and Shade? Haven't seen them for a while."

There are things she can't say because she promised not to. Things that don't belong to him. Or things that aren't easily said anyway in one sentence, because it's all on the long road of plans and decisions. "Ok, I guess. "

Thomas doesn't let go. Spill it, spill it, his eyes beg. "What, wait, what, Cookie. Just ok?"

"I am not Farleys doctor, so yeah, okay I guess."

There's dim worry in his dark eyes a second. "She sick again?"

Someone ought to tell him. But why her? Again? All the time? She takes a long breath.

"You really don't know." But that was to be expected. A little slow, sometimes.

"What?" he asks confused and hops closer to her. The matress creeks under the impact. "What do I not know? What's happening?"

No turning back now, she guesses. "Farley isn't sick, asshat. She's pregnant."

He stares at her. Stares still. It takes another few seconds before the realization drills into his head. "No way."

Cameron shrugs.

"No wayyyyyy," Thomas repeats.

Cameron shrugs again.

He looks like those happy little dogs he loves so much. Basically jumping up and down, breathing too hard. He'll hug me, her alarm warns her. That's a big flopping happy Thomas hug.

With a jump, he leans over and just does it. "Why do people not tell me that? That's awesome!"

He squeezes Cameron as tight as his one arm can. She lets his excitement go by ,gets shaken by his happy hugging. There's some unbound energy behind it.

"Does everyone know?" His hair tickles her face.

"I guess?" Cameron huffs, getting squished and squeezed in his hug. "But no one really talks about it to me...so...you didn't hear it from me."

"Course not," he promises. He spends some time flat on his back, legs and arms tapping and moving again. More happy than impatient now. She leans back on her spot. There's another happy squeezing hug when he leaves. She lets it go by, without a snap or a punch, only for today.


	23. Something nice, something small

_**I am sorry for the long absence, I kidnapped my beta to help me write my first original work. If you are interested reading it write me a PM I don't want to advertise blandly on my stories.**_

* * *

 _Thomas_

He rings the doorbell three times. Then he knocks. The floor is dark and grey. There are muffled noises coming from behind some doors, a TV, or music. The clanking of someone that could be either doing or throwing dishes at the wall.  
Who knows.  
A long pause. A possible suspicious glance through the fisheye. A lock clicking.

It's warm inside the apartment. That's something. The heated air hits him right when the door gets opened.

Shade doesn't look like he has expected Thomas in his favorite new blue sweater, a woolen scarf slung tightly around his throat, grinning like a madman. It's too long and dirty, tangled in his jacket and the sling.  
„Diana's not-„ he starts.  
His hair is slightly wet as if he's either just come home from the drizzle outside or has taken a shower.  
He doesn't get very far because Thomas hugs him with all the force his lanky body possesses. His arm hurts in the sling when he squeezes it into the hug. But he doesn't care.

„You're going to be a Dad!" Thomas tells him as if he didn't know anything about it.

„Who told you? Cameron?" Shade asks, amicably enduring the overflowing enthusiasm.

"Eh, no, course not." Thomas winces as he parts from the hugging. "Dude, why did no one tell me? Can I come in? What's happening?"

He doesn't get an answer. Just a back tensing when they step in. Has been a while since he was here. Nothing really has changed though.  
"I know no one ever tells me anything. You never do."  
There's a small look and it's the older sibling stare. "Because you always end up miserable."  
"Ehh." Thomas makes and can't really argue with that.

„You're back with Maven."

Thomas blinks a moment. He forgot he never really had a face to face talk about it. Because he chickened out. Scared to lose another friend.

And then he avoided any contact and could have lost it that way. A pretty stupid tactic.

He's been ghosted by Maven so many times and has ghosted other people himself he should know to avoid some is the root of never solving it. Avoiding never magically solved any problems.

Running, running, running. It feels weird not to run anymore. To sit on a regular basis with someone you love. It's probably the closest he has ever gotten to a normal life.

„Yeah. Guess that's what it is." Thomas sighs. „You gonna tell me I am a moron? Farley did that. Cameron did it. Your sister did. Mine too."

„Good."

Thomas huffs. For a second they lock gazes along the room. Thomas is the first to actually turn his head away.

„ I am pretty sure my sister roasted you." Shade says with some small satisfaction.

„She did." Thomas laughs. He feels half happy half miserable. Like he is walking on clouds but can crash any second. „I have never been more afraid she was going to murder me. And she was right. I think she hates me now."

„Mare and you are both stubborn."

„Guess we are."

He remembers the summer when they somehow both crashed into each other because Thomas was always trouble. He remembered how he'd seen him around because their mothers were friends. But he'd never attempted to talk to any of the Barrows. Not really. He was invisible for one half of the world and filth for the other half. There was no reason to even try.

They met by some coincidence. Probably happens when you both sneak around. Thomas remembers the little things. The first friendly words. How he was too cocky and tried to be so smooth because in truth he wanted to curl down in a corner and cry.

And then somehow he got adopted like some stray cat and it was probably the only thing that kept him upright and alive before he met Maven and got back home.

And now we're here, Thomas thinks, looking over and watching Shade. And he's going to have a kid and I am trying to be a functional human. What are the odds?

His eyes wander away and find the table to his right, the one he remembers Farley on when he calls her. The computer is on. Some small white light. A USB stick is plugged into one side.

In the light, there's the smallest silvery glimmer. _Corros_ is stamped into one side of it.

Thomas never really paid attention but he stares at it now in a mixture of curiosity and caution.

He knows that flash drive. He's sure.

He's no clue what it means. Cameron told him there was something important on it. He has never looked at the things on it. Just wanting to get it over to Cameron because she was deserving something good. He remembers he was spooked by the way Maven handed it over.

 **Family business. Let's assume I asked nicely.**

What is on that blighted thing that makes it so interesting for them? Does he even want to know?

He could just ask. No harm. And Shade would probably easily block the questions anyway. He's maybe a friend but their other side, that's never really been for him and Farley basically has thrown him out with a stern warning.

He could wait for a moment alone. Or get it back and just take the flash drive for a while.

His hand curls into a fist. No, that would be wrong. Because he's not one to sneak around. And he's here because of his friends. You don't just snoop in your friend's stuff.

He decides to turn to the couch and let it be. Slumping down beside one of his oldest friends. Letting the good mood seep through his bones and chase the bad taste away.

„So, is the whole gang coming?"

He earns the Shade approved back pat. „You know it."

Like old times. But better.

He jumps up like a dog when he hears the door rattling. A key turning twice.  
His bottle gets carelessly discarded on the table, almost falling over. If not for Shade catching it, he'd make another mess altogether.  
She's wearing a coat that's too big to say anything about her...  
what is the right word for that? Thomas thinks. Condition? That sounds like an illness.

"Hey Captain," he says, trying to look not like the happy idiot he is when he hugs her too. He doesn't want to waste any more time. Not when he's sure for the first time in his life things could go up, slowly.

She huffs when his arm brushes over her back, icy water soaked in her coat.

"Now you're going to be a real mom, eh?" he whispers. He tries to imagine her with some massive belly stomping around. Has something amusing, but my goodness, she is terrifying already. What will she be like when she's really, really, pregnant?

"I wondered when you'd notice," she answers.

"Sorry I am a potato."

To his utter surprise, she hugs him back. It's firm and warm and strong. He smiles against her shoulder, holding onto her.

"Hey guys," he waves slightly to the other figures.

Cameron's curly hair is hidden under her hood. She has a scarf slung tightly around her mouth and lower half of her face, hiding it. He still knows she's scowling at him. A grumpy burrito waltzing straight past him, hitting his shoulder slightly while she passes.

"She's in a good mood today." Thomas greets Kilorn. His blond hair is sticking out from under his own hood. He throws over a glance to see Cameron waltzing away and Warrens green eye follow too.

 _Are you sure you two aren't dating?_

He bites his lips not to say it.

He's quite happy there's nothing left of that senseless crush he harbored for a while. Good and back to old and normal. Maybe better since they never really got to talk at all before Maven's smear campaign.

"She didn't yell at anyone. Almost like its christmas already."

Thomas snickers when a scarf flies in a curled up ball toward them. He didn't realize how much he missed this. Together. Everyone he likes.

Alright, not everyone.

But he doesn't expect Maven here. Not anytime soon. That'd end in a blood bath. He is sure they don't even know that flash drive came from him. Cameron must have kept her mouth tightly shut about the details.

And in the case of Mare Barrow, he is rather glad she's not here. He misses her. But Shade is right. They are both stubborn. They even bristle and shied away from conversation when they were friends. But now it's even harder.

A chair scratches over the floor. Cameron keeps away from the others, barely in reach for any conversation.  
Thomas picks up her scarf and when he's close enough he throws it back into her face. She makes a muffled sound.  
„Thomas, brace yourself, your day gets better," Kilorn says and Cameron rolls her eyes as if she knows what's next.

„What could be better than the Captain getting a kid?"

„Farley's father." Thomas waits in anticipation. Warren knows it. He makes an effective pause."They call him the Colonel."

He feels like he's hyperventilating. His ribs hurt from holding the laughter back. „Noooo. Noooo. That's too perfect. That's the perfect continued- nooo- nooo-„

„He's so happy right now." Kilorn comments. „Look at him."

Farley lets out a deep breath. „You gave him a million new ways to make bad jokes."

„At least he won't tell people he is falling for them when he stumbles." Shade shakes his head slightly as if the memory is haunting him."Or that banana joke."

„Colonel and Captain- nooo," Thomas can't stop.

„You broke him," Cameron says disgusted.

It settles itself after a while because Thomas can't breathe while he's processing some of the bones Warren keeps throwing him.

It's almost light, almost too easy. Too friendly.

It's a good thing, but after the weekend and the way he's been treated at work when he called in sick it is strange.

It's as if they are ignoring whatever they were planning to do in favor for just Thomas and his silly, senseless life.

He's perched in on one side of the couch, and Farley's occupying the space in the middle, with Shade one loose arm behind her.

 _It's good,_ he tells himself. _It's right._

There's another knock.

Thomas looks up.

"Is that who I think it is?" He hopes for another answer but he knows better.

"My sister," Shade says.

"I hope you mean Gisa. But I know you're not."

"Stop bullshitting." Cameron haunts him from her chair. "And be a fucking adult for once."

"Cameron is not wrong." Farley answers.

"Thanks." the _ghost of no bullshit_ scoffs.

There are expectations coming from some of the eyes. Some are just annoyed. Or just curious. Thomas takes a deep breath before he gets up.

And what choice does he have? Jump out of the window? Maybe that'd be not so bad after all.

No turning back now. He unlocks the door and looks at the face of Mare Barrow. Who clearly didn't expect him to lurk around.

„Li- „ he stops himself. „Hey, Mare." He greets, holding his sleeves with his hands. „Hey, Cal."

„Thomas," is the small greeting he gets. But it's more friendly than he expected. After the last Maven disaster, he'd be fine with him just wanting to be left alone.

They stare at each other for a moment, not sure what to make of it.

„Hey, Thomas." She answers.

"Good to see you." he tries to answer.

They aren't hugging. Never were the cuddly pair. Even in good times.

He holds out his hand.

But at the same rate of surprise and shock that came with Diana Farley hugging him, she takes his hand for a moment. She squeezes it.

„Missed you," he says."Still kicking asses, yeah?"

„Kept on kicking." She answers, shrugging slightly. He can feel she's as uncomfortable as he is.

He lets out the faintest of laughs, remembering saying the words on a rooftop. „ Can't give up. Can we?"

He takes his safe spot next to Farley and Shade after that, as if the peace is too fragile to challenge it.

No one asks about Maven. Probably for the best this way.

At one point Farley gets up, slowly. For a second there's a small silence while Mare and Kilorn bicker about something on their chairs. Cameron watches silently as if she's not sure what to do. She certainly chooses to ignore Cal. But she hasn't told him to go to hell, so Thomas wagers it is alright.

„Dude," he whispers, leaning his chin on his hand and looks over. „When will you do it?"

Shade leans over. „What?"

„I know you." Thomas insists. "I swear I thought you'd ask her to marry you on the spot. But now..you know, with little Thomas on the way."

„Wait," Shade's mouth twitches. "Little Thomas?"

„Sure, I thought it was clear you'd name your kid after me." Thomas lifts his eyebrows. „After you married Farley and made me your best man of course."

Shade's hand ruffles through his hair, shoving his head with gentle force.

„It's not that easy."

„I've been on Maven's tail for months. So as someone who knows the meaning of not that easy. You ask her. Or I swear I will." He leans forward and almost falls off the couch.

When she returns to her corner Thomas gives Shade one last meaningful glare.

„I was just sayin, Captain, little Thomas will-„

„I am not naming my child after you." She turns her head around, one shaved site facing Thomas now. Her voice is stern. It reminds him of the times she watched them munch through food and seemed to ask herself if she was the only regular person. Of course, she can't complain about eating habits now with the pregnancy and all. He wonders if she's one of those relentless eating moms or if she's still sick from food. „We aren't naming our child Thomas." She repeats to Shade.

„You heard her." Is the defeating answer, something laughing is hiding inside it.

Thomas looks over. He catches Mare's eye over the space between them.

That's how it should be, almost good. Just nice.

He smiles. It's a genuine smile. One of the corners of her mouth tugs up.

„Maybe just a middle name?" he jokes.

„Like yours?" Shade asks and Thomas makes a little sound in the back of his throat.

„You know his middle name?" Cameron asks from the chair. It's the first thing she has said in a while.

„You bet." Shade answers and Thomas decides it is time to retreat.

„Maybe we should not call your kid Thomas." He offers and takes a sip from his bottle. „It is a boring name anyway."


	24. Make a list

**[AN] I am romance trash, sorry, but I swear, there's a reason this story is as it is despite the unsolved conflicts. Next two chapters are Maven's :) Thank you for sticking with me for all this time. Especially the people following me and the people commenting. Couldn't have done it without you, Daisey and Serenitia and all the other guest commenters I wish I could reply to! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.  
**

* * *

 _Maven_

 **Old wounds stick, don't they?**

Thomas phone rests on the drawer, angry chirping, vibrating through the scratched wood.

It doesn't stop.

At first, he just ignores it because it's Thomas. He sits very still between the brightly colored pillows that take most space on the mattress.

For a short moment, it does stop.

The pen in his hand makes a small drumming sound as it taps the paper once.

Then it starts again.

He gets up slowly. The room is warm, but his hands feel cold on the wood. The new phone already has a few scratches across the display, a testimony of the poor treatment it receives. He stares at his own face in the picture, Thomas mouth next to his ear, grinning and just being smug. Hair tousled, light dim. A blurry single snapshot. One figure pale, one warm and friendly.

 _Missed Calls_

 _Lightning_

Mare. Mare.

Of course, she'd call him. Of course, he would have a nickname for her.

For a moment he almost vividly remembers the little things he always noticed about her. It's a visceral process he barely can control.

 _Worthless, it's worthless, why would you ever care what she thinks?_

A girl walking beside him, an earring glittering in a summer night, voice steady.

 **She made me laugh.**

The tips of her hair swinging in the wind when she moves her head slightly. The second he turned around and suddenly realized there was something else, something that was nothing if not demanding. To possess. To control. She wasn't a boy on a bench on the river, but she could have been enough. Perhaps.

 _She couldn't ever understand how you are. You're better than that._

The radical realization he couldn't stop. And that she didn't feel the same way. And that it didn't matter. Because she would not ever get rid of him. Never. He would not stop.

 _It's pathetic._

 **Of course, she'd chose my brother. Who wouldn't?**

It's tugging at his inner being. It's angry and confusing. He turns boiling angry, some pale nightmarish sort of anger, like a skeleton hand squeezing his heart and cracking his ribcage open in the process.

 **It wasn't ever real. Was it? And here I am and she's calling Thomas. Dear old friends.**

There's something foul in his mouth. It's yellow and bitter.

One could almost assume it's jealousy. But it isn't only that. Because it isn't his fault people are selfish and they leave and they do not understand.

 **Ah. But that isn't the truth, or is it?**

He takes a step back. The screen goes black.

He sits back on the edge of the mattress. One more breath.

He could take the call. And wouldn't that be a surprise?  
Hello again, he could say, it's been a while. Nice to hear your voice.  
And he knows there'd be a small pause and he can almost paint the way her face would look the second she knows it's him.

One more breath.

He doesn't spare another glare at the phone.

Then it's like someone has emptied a bucket of ice over his head and he's cold.

He returns to the task at hand, taking the notepad and the pen back.

Make a list. A very easy assignment one would assume.

Things you should do.

Things you want, things you need to do. Things that are acceptable.

Things that are reasonable. All those things are one and the same. Except when they are not.

 _Why would you try and make plans? We already know how it turns out. You already HAVE plans. This is silly. It is useless... It is downright naïve._

He wants to crumble the paper in his fist, a wadded ball of frustration. He looks up when the door opens and lazy bare feet shuffle over the ground.

"Where's your sling?" Maven asks as he sees the naked arm hanging loosely.  
"The doc said I can take it off sometimes," Thomas says, hair a mess dripping water over his grey shirt. "And it doesn't hurt that much if I keep it like this."

There's a short silence.

Words used to hurt between them. Now they fill the silence quickly.

"Your phone was ringing." He tries to sound casual.

"Sorry, hope it didn't disturb. What are you even doing, pretty boy?"

"I was asked to make a list," he explains. Overall this time, 'Pretty boy' has taken the regular use in the vocabulary. The smallest reminder about two boys on a bench and a warm summer day could have been.

"You're good at making lists." Thomas offers and wrinkles his nose.

He looks at the paper. Long words sprawled over it. Senseless words, phrases over college, over plans that reach too far and don't have any consistency at the moment he is in right now. "I thought so."

"Alright." Thomas thumps on the mattress next to him. It's so worn out it shapes after his back in the corner where he always lies. It's clean and warm, filled with mismatched pillows. Everything in Thomas life seems mismatched, even the tattoos on his body, little images scattered across his skin. At least the visible ones on his arms are shaped well enough. Flames and half torn skin forming bionic plates and whirling patterns.

It irks him the wrong way, this chaos unfolding where everyone can see. Sometimes it's downright infuriating. But it matches so well, doesn't it? Beauty in chaos. And it still belongs to the only person that still holds on and hasn't walked away.

Yet.

It's always a yet.

"So what's the question?" Thomas still tries to help. "Where do you see yourself in the future? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? Goals?"  
His throat feels dry. His chest feels too tight. He still focuses on the paper.

"I mean, you got to have something in mind. You got perfect grades and you're always planning something. Shouldn't be so hard, should it?"

 _Shouldn't be so hard._

 _You're smart enough to know what to do._

 _You're going to be the best. You're always the best._

 _You need to be better than the rest, Maven._

He stares. The pen wavers over the paper. Sinks.

Thomas' phone blasts out a high screeching alarm on the drawer. He bounces over and rips it unfriendly off the cable. The next he knows he has already bounced back on the mattress, closer now, side resting against Mavens. His hand pats his knee. Good patient Thomas, taking the hits and letting him stay. He's not sure why he knew Thomas would ever take him back.

Maven's knee gets another gentle pat before he picks up the phone again. "Take your time, yeah?"

The pen gets lifted. A deep breath. Finally writes the next words, clean and precise. Elegant even.

 ** _Move out_ **

He writes and as soon as it's on the paper he wants to burn it. He scratches it, one fine line through the letters like it is stabbing them.

Thomas makes a little snort next to him. When he looks over he sees a text. He only needs to squint a little to read Lightning on the screen and turns away.

It would be easier if there wasn't any connection. It would be easier if he'd just stop. Stop everything. Turn his back before Thomas does or anyone else comes around and blames him again.

 _ **Ask Thomas to move in** _

He grips the pen tightly. Takes a little breath.

Thomas' hand stretches out. "Can I look?"

"It is my list." He keeps the pen in his hand, fingers clenched around it.

 _You don't need the pity. You don't need help._

 **Help is accepting weakness. Just as the talk and the thoughts.**

How useless is that thought now that he almost spends all his time in the too small and crowded apartment with a boy that used to be the most unstable and restless person he had ever met.

It doesn't even make sense when the things he writes are tightly connected and about him.

But old wounds do tend to stick. Even with all the patience of a saint that's mismatched barefoot Thomas.

He bristles under the glare, tries to bring distance between the hand and himself. Straightens his back.

"I know." Thomas still has the hand outstretched. "Just let me take a look."

He hands it over unwillingly, hands moving slow.

"Don't make fun." he insists.

"Promise."

Sometimes, when Thomas reads, it isn't actually hard to see how and what he progresses. Especially not when he folds the paper together and gives it back. So much for the bravery of asking face to face. All the trouble and stressful cycle of vicious biting thoughts dissolved easily.

Words are no friends between them. Or at least they didn't used to. It's slowly getting better.

"That's actually really sweet. But...you know what people say about goals?"

"No, but I am sure you will tell me now."

"Make them a little smaller sometimes. I can't afford moving into a big apartment with you. I mean, I want to." he hurries to say. "I'll get three jobs. I can probably steal stuff or beg friends. But you know...offer still stands. Move in with me here. For now."

Maven looks at the worn out mattress and the too little space filled to the brim with things. There's his clothes folded next to the bed and some textbooks half hidden beside Thomas drawing utensils, a row neatly stacked. "I already live here, Thomas, in case you haven't noticed."

"Right? But not officially. Key and all."

"Would that make you happy?"

"It's not about me, Mave." he rolls his eyes. "Can you add something to your list?"

"What would that be?"

"Be happy."

Is there any more simplistic and useless answer?

There's an expectation behind it. As if he has invented the wheel and asks for just a little recognition. It could be endearing if Maven wasn't tense and tired.

"It's easy to tell people to just be happy." Is all he can say. It sounds crude, but it is true. All those bright advice and easy motivations are meaningless. Especially if you cannot even figure out what a reasonable goal for the future should be.

Thomas shrugs. "Maybe I tell you that cause I really wish you were just happy. I could have just said shit for myself, y'know?"

"And what would that be?"

A hand gently lays over his cheek, frail and careful, calloused and warm. " _Never stop kissing Thomas because he's the best._ "

"And I'd say it's the most reasonable request." He leans into the touch, fingers clenching into the fabric of Thomas sweater when they kiss.

There's no talk at all for a while. It's a pondering touch at first. Testing the waters, careful.

"It's like a sun," Thomas once said, senseless but endearing as ever. "Boom. You kiss me, it explodes."

The sun is warm and good, but you shouldn't blink into it for too long.

It's something they have done a million times in various situations. A million kisses, a million times holding hands. But always alone. Not to be seen by anyone.

It never stops igniting some sort of spark.

Somehow they end sideways on the mattress. Half sitting, half lying, a strange state of hovering. Thomas back is careful leaning against a pillow propped on the wall.

Somehow, when his head tries to plan the way his muscles should move, they overcome that thought and do better on themselves. If kisses and smiles with Thomas are gifts, this is something else.

Somehow, he never hated the way this happens. It's not filling any void. A sun gets swallowed by a black hole. But it's enough. For now. For a long, hissing breath, a gasp, a fluttering rushing heartbeat.

One arm barely moving with his damaged shoulder, that hand only slightly touches one side of Maven's leg. The other slides under his shirt, touching his stomach.

He'd never have believed someone saying a simple touch to your stomach could make you feel this way, leaving a trace of a tingling sensation when it wanders. But it's real, simply just because their bodies are moving and breathing.

"Your arm." He says, stopping, and very much disliking the pause.

"Nah, I have two of them," Thomas whispers. As if to prove his words the hand that still trails over his skin pulls him closer. Their hips press together and some molten warmth chases through his body. "And I kind of like you a little bossy in bed anyway."

The crook of Thomas' neck is warm and smooth and alive with his heart beating steady under the tip of his nose.

"Thomas?" he whispers into the dim darkness. Wide awake. As always.

There's a half-asleep sound before an arm tightens around his back. "Yeah?"

"Are you happy?" he asks.

There's a silence outside the warmth.

"Is that a serious question?" Thomas asks back.

He doesn't need to say it.

But why doesn't he just say the words if that is the truth? Isn't all of this about truth?

He forces himself to lift his head. "Of course it's a serious question."

"Can't you tell?" Thomas asks. Their hands are organically finding each other.

The flames on his hand remind them both that a spark can turn into a blazing uncontrollable fire that eats everything. Thomas doesn't look at him. He doesn't even try.

The worst liar of them all can never look the opposite in the face.

People always try to take away the things you love anyway. Better cut it short and don't give them the satisfaction.

He pulls his hand away. For a moment. Then the fingers return, clinging tightly.

"Everything's like...so good. You're good. My friends are good. It could turn out alright, couldn't it? I can't remember the last time I was actually so happy. I don't even fucking care someone tried to kill me as long as they don't try again." he looks like he's about to cry.

Every time Thomas cries it's etching inside his memory, a milestone of leaving and returning and never stopping.

 **Eclectic circles and endless repetition. Half trapped half willingly to stay where you know your place.**

"But there are still so many things going on and I am really, really scared of it. I'm not brave, Maven, I'm terrified. I just ignore it."

He feels the way their fingers are lacing, and how everything fits into every hollow, every crack, every part into another. "We never talk about that."  
"We have a lot of personal trash to take out first, I guess."

He can't sleep. He wishes he could. That it was easy with someone that always asks and cares.  
In truth, there's nothing to do.  
He just can't sleep.  
This itself has become a routine.  
In the end, he lies awake for a while, limbs around him forming a protective cage.  
Then he pries them away.  
Gets dressed.  
Wanders through the apartment.

"No really, it's been a hell of a time." he hears Thomas sister say. A small white light shines through her half-open door. "Not only family. But all of the things we know have just turned over again. It'll get so much worse when they finally get rid of the last restrictions that protect us."

" Yes, I know. Things take a turn back. With those new laws regulating- Sorry I know you don't want to hear me raving about the laws and prohibitions."

He's never heard her laugh. It's a pretty sound, he supposes. She sounds relaxed. "I am really glad you were there for me. But I don't know if 'just coffee' is really what you have in mind. I know you."

Her room is clean and there's some sort of order that is aesthetically pleasing. She always is the one cleaning up, after all. Thomas is barely able to keep his own dishes and laundry in check most days and there are still things carelessly left in the small apartment. Her room is bigger too, with one window and curtains swinging gently in the air from the heater.

"Hello, Hannah." he just says.

Hannah turns around on her bed. There's a certain disdain in her face when she sees him.

More friendly than the others would be, he supposes.

"I'll call you back, alright?" she says, there's another pause again when the voice says something and she's clearly wishing he wasn't listening. "You too. Bye."

They stare at each other a moment. There's very little acceptance but the dinner with their family has at least settled a mutual agreement, a cease-fire.

Her eyes wander over his feet at her doorstep.

"I'm not going to ask you to come in and sit with me." she clarifies. "That's my bedroom."

"I am not a vampire," he scoffs softly but stands very still. "I don't need you to invite me."

She shrugs. "You have manners and pretend to be polite, so there's that."

"You finally found my weakness. Better tell all of your friends." he mocks. It's without much cruelty. Thomas kisses have unarmed him, too content for the moment to truly try. She'd be a bad target anyway. An easy one, but not one that is worthwhile.

She laughs. It's not exactly the same friendly laugh. More of the hard and dry kind.

It's better than sneering, he supposes.

"I hear you got promoted. Congratulations."

"Yes, around silver bootlickers all the time now," she answers unimpressed by his flattery.

They stare at each other. Blink.

She makes a frustrated noise. "Okay, you can come in, you make me nervous lurking around."

As if he's a pet allowed on the couch. He swallows and just takes the offer.

"Has Thomas asked you about Christmas already?"  
He sits down on the farthest corner away from her. "Your mother's idea, I suppose."  
"Mom would do anything to keep Thomas. She's terribly afraid he will just leave again. Don't overthink it."

And you don't? He thinks but decides not to say it.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says instead. He doesn't tell her what he would dream of. That would not make a good starter for a conversation, would it?


	25. Family

_Maven_

"I made a list." Maven says into the neutral colored room, meant to trick people into relaxing and spilling their deepest truths and secrets. A cheap strategy but it works. It's clean and quiet. The heater makes a gurgling noise once in a while, but that is all. Not like he would feel relaxed. He still talks.

There's a pair of eyes waiting expecting. He thinks of the way Thomas stared at Sara Skonos in the hospital and a knot tied tightly in his stomach because he can't get rid of any deep instinctual reflex to flee.

"I made three lists." He corrects himself. "And then I burned them. But they all were useless anyway."

"What did you write?"

His eyes avoiding any contact, looking at the hands disappearing in his pockets. The chair creaks a little.

"Future plans. Where to go. What to do. Who I want to be with. Or talk to again." You gave me the assignment, you ought to know every pathetic excuse and platitude people spill in front of you.  
 **Of course, I'll do it.**  
 **I really want it.**  
 **I guess I was just afraid.**  
He feels physically sick for a moment because he's disgusted.

"So you want to talk to people again. That is good."

"I thought about talking to my brother."

"That is a responsible decision, Maven."

He doesn't say the rest.

Responsible?

Perhaps.

But how do you start something as difficult as that? He doesn't even know what to say.

And that isn't good. Because whatever the root of his existent or nonexistent feelings for something, he always knows what to say and what to keep. Or at least that is how he was raised and how he hopes to appear.

It would be easier not to try it. He could lie and say he did try so hard. People would believe him. Or maybe not.

 **I know our last argument has more or less settled that we will never be close. I am not foolish enough to think you'd even consider that option, neither am I. Why should I talk to you?**

He doesn't write that. The answer lies somewhere in the past, some sort of blurry image. Self-inflicted and full of irritating thoughts and feelings.

You never understood. Why do I even care?

His brother hugging him, his brother smiling, telling him he's smart, his brother trying to be nice. His brother calling him 'Mavey' and making some joke no one understands but them.

He's too good and too warm. He's too nice and he's too perfect.

He doesn't understand some things at all and others too well.

He always gets what he wants and he never even had to fight for it.

 **Father's better son. In the front row. Always golden. But where are you now and where's our father?**

 **I hate you.**

 **I don't hate you.**

 **Why could you never-**

Every word is left unsaid.

 **Call me** , blackmailing always was a strong suit of his, why not use it to refreshen their brotherly bond? **It may be beneficial for people you care about.**

 **Hello brother, you're on my list.**

Well, doesn't that sound threatening? It's certainly provocative enough to not be taken as any kind of apology.

He never has learned to apologize. He was told he would never need to apologize. The phone sinks on his table and he stops, eyes senselessly somewhere focusing on the wall. In an attempt to collect the right words.

Finding words that aren't hurtful. Words that are shaped in truth and in the attempt of honesty.

If he can do it with Thomas, he ought to do it with someone else. Someone that knew him once and really doesn't know him at all.

Thinking is the only thing he is either terribly good or terribly bad at. It's undecided. The words return and whirl around until he has a headache and gets inexplicably angry.

Thomas is busy. He can't always hope for saintly protection. Even though he is the only person to talk topic remains untouched by anyone. He doesn't talk about it and no one asks.  
At least that is what all this chaos is good for. The streets are systematically cleaned up or shut down in part. Would not want to have the vermin in the pretty and respectable parts.

He sits in the silent, big room. It's bright and cold in comparison to the small apartment downtown. It smells wrong. It doesn't feel right.

Why does nothing feel right?

A room never can be clean enough. And it still feels wrong. A room is always too big or too small. Nothing is wrong with it, but it does feel like it.

You live here, a part of him insists. But it a bad lie for his standards. Everyone knows the truth, even if they don't talk about it. But as long as no one acknowledges it, there's a certain facade that can be kept and maintained.  
What would the people say if they knew he has left today with a key in his pocket?

Runs away from home after everything his mother has done for him, after all the loss they had to endure, people would say, With that filthy red boy. Throws away his future.

"My lost son finally returns." his mother greets him when she sees his form in the unused, wide open space of the living room.

Gracious as always. There's little else than some snide remark. He's got his values and she has hers. Better to leave it at that as long as there still is common ground.

If he wasn't so tired he would look at her properly. He doesn't need to look up to know her blue eyes are watching him. He knows her so well he can always calculate what she will do.

As a little child, he always knew when to agree and when to be silent.

Nothing much has changed about that. Though he can't remember how it started. Or why. For sure it was something small, but imperfect. Something that needed to be eradicated. And does that even matter anymore? He barely remembers a moment without her voice, some small whisper in the back of his head.

"You were missing quite the show the last days." She doesn't sit down. She stands still on her spot. A shadow over a clean white and blue carpet.

He finally looks up. They match in their black clothes like they always matched in most other things.

"I had dinner with Thomas family and decided to stay because of his arm. I told you as much." And nothing else. Just enough.

She smiles a little. Dwelling in some memory or thought, far away. "It is his own fault he had that little accident."

"I know if you had tried to hurt him, you would have been more let us say, effective." It's the experience that talks.

"It still serves him right." She waves once, a gesture like swatting an insect away.

People below you don't deserve any mercy.

A lesson well learned.

"Anyway, I do need to thank you."

"Thank me?" She does never thank anyone. Never truly. This isn't courtesy. This is something else.

"Yes, of course. Remember what I told you about secrecy and skill when you need something?"

Another lesson well served, with perfect poise and effortless precision. "You taught me how to leave no trace behind."

She looks at him with that ...disappointment. He frowns slightly.

She's too calm and sure to have lost anything valuable. Whatever she knows, it makes her very sure he has nothing to fire against it.

"And that's why I noticed your clumsy mistakes. Threatening people in my name wasn't your brightest idea. One had to report back and ask about the commotion."

 _Clumsy, clumsy, no no, Maven. You can do better. You WILL do better._

 _This isn't the best. Do the best. The best._

"I assume you gave it to lovely Thomas." Lovely sounds more like an insult. "Or even someone else that is maybe smart enough to understand the gravity of that data."

"Assume I did that." he dares. No need to dance around. They both know it. They both know he gave information up. What she doesn't know is that he did it in the form of silver flash drive with the word 'Corros' stamped into it.

" You know what that bit of information does if someone actually would make it public. You know all about it from the beginning. All the dirty laundry. All the names."

 _We're in this together, always._

"Not that it will matter." she continues. "It'll be over very soon. People can't hide forever."

"No, they can't."

 _What did you do?_

 **What did I do this time, mother?**

 **A mess, a mess, this is a mess.**

Her eyes are very blue in the white light that burns merciless in the room. Just a small reminder of what they are.

Somewhere alone on his too big mattress and empty room, he stares at the lit screen of his phone. Then he finally pushes a button and sends the message.

 **I need an advice. I don't even know why I ask you.  
**

But he does. Of course.

Hours go by, No response. It was stupid. Foolish. A foul joke in another day of his existence.

When he sits in his bed wide awake, late at night, his phone makes a noise.

First, he thinks it is just Thomas. They text and talk an excessively high amount of nights away.

But it's not.

It's only five words on his display. He stares at them as if they have turned into a foreign scripture he cannot understand.

 ** _Do the right thing, Mavey._**


	26. I wanted to surprise you

_Maven_

The world is a blurry, soundless thing. It is devoid of any distractions. The music is loud enough to drown the sounds of the street. Cars rushing by. Gliding cones through the half-light, filtered by something wet drizzling down on him. Half frozen, half faint misty rain, it lays as a cover over his head and shoulders.  
The music drowns It is loud enough to keep the world at bay. For some time, at least.

It's the oldest strategy of them all. Avoiding, distracting. But it works well enough.

The world never truly leaves anyway.

It shapes again as soon as he pulls down his headphones and the world suffocates him for a second.

 _Do the right thing._

 _You know what to do._

 **What is the right thing?**

It's going to be a surprise, for sure. He's sure Thomas doesn't expect him. But you don't discuss anything like this over the phone.

The tip of the key shakes a little when he holds it in front of the lock.

It's just a key. A small metallic object with the simple purpose to unlock doors.

He should just do that. Unlock the door.

It is easy. A simple turn, a push.

The key is relatively new and without any scratches. It shines silver in the dim light of the staircase. Things are never just one thing at all. Especially not gifts.

This key is like a message.

I trust you enough to let you come and go. The key says. No pressure. No expectations.

But of course, that is not true at all. Because using the key itself fulfills expectations.

Gifts are meant to invoke something in the people you give them to.

They can be practical, like a jacket to a boy that doesn't even wear socks and sleeps behind a dumpster.

They can be an offer for peace, or just small debts repaid like a silver flash drive or a phone call. Not letting the other person know that it was an effort.

Sometimes gifts are not gifts at all.

The staircase always smells rotting.

It stings in his nose, pricks all his senses.

He finally moves his hand and unlocks the door. "What is THAT Tommy?" The voice of Thomas sister greets him, desperately and confused.

He could move straight into the kitchen. It is only a few strides down the narrow hallway. He'd pass Thomas bedroom door. He's done it a million times. Why does he stop and listen?

"Yeah remember that ground beef?" Thomas asks.

"It's white?" she asks confused.

"Nah, that's just because I put sour cream into it."

He closes the door carefully, stepping out of his shoes. The floor is clean and someone clearly cleared the usual mess of Thomas jackets and scarfs madly tangled and half lying on the floor.

"There was no sour cream in our fridge."

"What was the white stuff?" Thomas wonders.

"I want to puke." A second female voice says grimly. Maven stops one foot half in motion. Breathing shallow. "He should be banned from cooking."

"Yeah but you're used to Nanny cooking and she's really good, "Thomas tries to defend whatever spawn of hell he has summoned on a plate again. "It doesn't look that bad."

Hannah sighs. It's that frustrated sound she always makes when it comes to her brother. Not that he would know all too much about it. "Mare, back me up."

Something strange happens when he hears her voice. There's something snapping inside his head. It almost feels like someone has shattered something. Fractured and broken and uncontrollable.

"Thomas, how did you survive alone?" Her voice asks, not snide, but almost genuinely worried. Of course, she'd worry about someone as sweet and chaotic as Thomas.

"This." Hannah huffs. "Is A perversion of nature."

"An abomination."

"I'd say you need to burn it. But it is already burned."

And then he makes another step forward because he will not be the one to be easily defeated. It's all about victory or death, for once. Some things make you weak sometimes but when they are over you can easily see their appeal. You can even overcome whatever appeal they had.

Hannah is the first one to see him, leaning by the fridge. She frowns alarmed.

There's a tall girl lounging lazily on the chair, dark arms peeking from too short sleeves with holes in it, crossed behind her head. Cameron Cole, for sure. She's a permanent thing in Thomas stories and images. Though he never had the pleasure to meet her himself. She sneers silently at him but doesn't move.

Thomas stands with the back to the hallway and leans over the stove. He looks at the thing in the pot. "What? No. It's perfectly fine. "

"I'm not going to eat that." Mare doesn't try to hide her disgust. "And neither are you."

"But I am hungry." Thomas tries to argue.

Cole on the chair makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat with so much passion one ought to applaud her. But it doesn't really matter. He still looks over to Thomas and Mare.

It's grotesque seeing them next to each other because in comparison, there's something familiar and friendly and it stings.

It doesn't help there's nothing left of the open honesty he had in store for Thomas. Instead, he stares back in a mixture of something cold and poisonous, crawling right under his skin.

„This isn't happening." She says, and he feels the anger like cackling electricity building inside her.

„I am certain it is," Maven says, and Thomas shoots him a glare.

Oh, if looks could kill there'd be a room full of corpses right now.

"No no," Thomas surrenders palms up in the air, stepping between them. As if that was not useless.

"It has been awhile." Maven feels his mouth say. „And I had imagined it differently. I missed your birthday."

It does hold a certain sense of satisfaction.

"Stop," Thomas says.

"I'd have written you a message, but that would have indicated I care enough."

"And it's not because your mother keeps you on a leash and you pretend to not be a monster for Thomas."

"Stop," Thomas says. "Seriously."

And he doesn't say it to her. He doesn't even look at her. He only glares at Maven.

"You don't need to protect me," Her face is hard and unfriendly, with something akin to deep-rooted hurt, it's laced into her eyes, even if she doesn't want to acknowledge it.

"Yeah no, I know you can punch him. But I just..," Thomas says he looks over for the first time. He blows out a stream of air, looks back to where Maven is frozen. "Why didn't you call?"

"Because you gave me a key and said I should surprise you."

"Great surprise." a voice mutters from the chair.

"Please leave." Thomas urges.

A moment of silence goes by, words swinging along, a silent accusation.

"You are on her side." he realizes. For a second in his poorly wired brain that is all that counts.

"No, but...I mean, you fucked her over and treated her like shit." Thomas mutters.

"Nothing of that would have happened if you hadn't left me." The words come out of his mouth, cross the distance and bury inside Thomas' ears. He can see the impact, how the accusation spreads. Like poison, it curls through his head.

It's like every effort, every bit of work has been nullified. Truth pacts are useless and every bit of genuine patience has drained from Thomas body. One year has been erased from existence.

Stop, stop, not again, a voice in his head screams. His mouth doesn't obey the rule.

"Alright girls, " Hannah mutters. "Pack together. We probably should …"

"What? No." Cameron answers and throws him another look. He doesn't even see it. It's like he has some tunnel vision.

Some sort of circuit is malfunctioning, and he can't even look at her anymore, or the way the only person he remotely trusts has build some sort of wall to fend him off.

"What?" Thomas asks. He doesn't look like he ever expected that accusation to rise again.

"You heard that. You promised me to stay and try and you left me. You never called. You didn't care even though all you had to do was wait. If you had waited I'd never have even looked her way."

"I came back!" Thomas yells. "I came back because you were right and I was wrong and you said it was alright and then you told me you loved another girl, literally fucked me and ghosted me. I almost died last week and I didn't make a drama of it?"

"We agreed you shouldn't have asked to come along and that you never will again."

"Yeah, I did, because that's how I am. Stupid Thomas has no five-year plan and just wants people to be happy." He chuckles without much humor. The chuckle turns into a hissing breath and a face turned away.

"How could I be happy when you turn on me?"

"Maven," is all Mare Barrow says but it's enough to send another jolting shiver of anger and panic and something numb through his body.

"You're next." he promises.

The color has drained from Thomas' face. "Are you out of your mind? What is fucking wrong with you?"

 _They'll say you are crazy. You don't want people to say you are crazy. You know what happens with crazy people._

"I don't know where this is going. But it fucking hurts. This isn't alright."

"And now what? You ask me to leave again?"

"I don't know!"

He wants to bite the tip of his tongue off. "Do you want your key back, Thomas? Perhaps give it to someone that isn't crazy."

There's no snappy comeback or even yelling. Just something shrinking inside Thomas' face and the way he hunches over like he just got punched in the stomach.

"I am fine with you working on that. Why would I always defend you and stick around otherwise?"

"Maybe you're just afraid you don't find anyone else because everytime someone tells you that you're smart or beautiful you don't believe it."

He doesn't look him in the face. A perfect copy of all the times they fought and Thomas just bolted straight out. Running away, fast, because perhaps the words can't find him when he goes. It makes him angrier. He doesn't have a right to be this irrational. There's no logic in the attack. But it sits so well, it hurts him at all the right places.

"You just prove my point." Maven's voice sounds cold.

For a second Thomas looks like he's about to cry. Then it's gone, nothing to blame him but something tired and empty. "You always had a talent for making me feel really good or terribly worthless. Nothing in between."

"I was wondering if we'd reach this peak again." Maven huffs. "Come on, you go first. Maybe I can actually work through it on my own. And if I don't, you can always brag you tried, but that crazy silver rich kid was always too much to take anyway."

And as soon as he has said the words everything moves. He ignores the way Maven silently watches him, trying to fight out the right words. Words for another apology. Words to heal and not to hurt. Things have gone sour this evening. They weren't perfect before but they kept moving in the right direction and now it's over again.

And before he knows there's the snap of a hand hitting straight into his face. He admittedly counted on any of them to hit him.

It still burns and stings with more surprise than he can muster when he looks down, sees the angry pale face and remembers the way they used to sit together, three of them (there's Mare and Maven and Cal and it's alright, somehow, even though it is not) in the middle of the night. And despite everything that was bad it counted enough for him to remember.

The birthday gift for the one he missed, he guesses.

She says something. But he can't really hear it. He just stares and wonders why his cheek turns numb when the rest of himself isn't.

It's over.

Thomas is pale and shaking.

It's over.

He grabs his shoes. Maven clenches his hand around his cheek.

It's over.

Neither Thomas or Mare look back. Rather leave and run than ever looking at him.

There's the tall frame of Cameron Cole lurking in the kitchen.

"Asshats, where are you going?" she shouts but Thomas just bolts.

He's so good at that.

It doesn't stop. Why doesn't it just stop? Why are the words stuck in the back of his throat when he needs them the most?

"Fan fucking tastic." Cole snorts. Her eyes are narrow and hostile. He couldn't care less. "Good job, you silver pile of shit."

"It's none of your business anyway." he scoffs softly.

"Yeah no, it is. Because I am the one cleaning up after you."

"Do you go after him or do I?" Hannah asks from a safe distance. Her voice is small. Her dark eyes are marbles, round and small and lifeless. Everything seems to has lost some more color and interest.

" You know him." She's my best friend, Thomas used to say. There was always some fondness in his voice. " And I really want to punch you in your fucking evil face right now," she says, hands clenched to fists. "But you're lucky cause you already got smacked. Imma go after them."

Because she doesn't want to stay as long as he is here.

He's left alone with his late-night acquaintance Hannah, still shuffling and looking unsure. He still holds his cheek. The pain is only a faint echo, but he still feels her fingers on his skin. He doesn't even want to think about it. He lets go of his cheek.

"I hope that hurt," Hannah says.

His other hand still holds the key.

He looks at it, turns it around. The metal has warmed in his fingers. But it doesn't provide any solace. No consolidation. Just another broken mess. "As always you're a darling."

"You're not dating me but my brother, so I don't need to kiss your ass, Maven," she says with only the slightest hint of anger. "And I tolerated you because I don't want my brother to run away and hide somewhere again. Oh wait, look what happened."

It'd be easy. Smashing something. Burning something. Hissing something at her so she'd crumble together and call him a monster.

Maybe he is. Maybe he really always was just that.

"Thomas is a dork. He is silly and he can act like a child. But he's my little brother." There's something in her face, the shadow of semblance to someone else. He wants to scratch it off, say something that stops her. He has no words. Pale, nightmarish anger and fear are curled up in his chest." I love him. And whatever your idea of love means, for me it's loyalty. So I stick with him whatever he does. And he's like that too. He's sticking with you even though everyone gives him shit about it all the time."

The key disappears in his pocket. He closes his fingers around it. "I always told him he deserves better."

"And you think he can just walk away? Know those birds that mate for life? There you got Thomas."

"Everyone leaves eventually."

"Wow. You are really delusional. I can't even be mad at you. " she huffs. "In the name of everyone you ever fucked over, hurt and left. Get your shit together or leave them alone."

 **Give me something whole and good. I'll gladly break it for you.**


	27. My smile is extinct

_Thomas_

It's like you realize you really don't want to go but you somehow can't stand to stay. So you just wander around or walk one zig-zagging line along the street to move your feet. His legs know running. They know to move. That's easy. Mechanical and easy.

Everything else is not.

 _Maybe you're just afraid you don't find anyone else because everytime someone tells you that you're smart or beautiful you don't believe it._

Is that what it is? Maybe it's really true. Maybe he should stop trying. Maybe having a relationship with someone that easily snipes you whenever he feels threatened and sees you as an enemy isn't possible.

It sure isn't easy.

Not that he has handled the situation particularly well.

 _But we made progress this time before the explosion. People would call that progress, right?_

Is it? His head is so full it hurts.

He almost runs right into a street lamp. It hasn't done anything to anger him. It's just a metal pole at the edge of the road. It's still in the center of his attention. He doesn't want to cry. So he kicks it. Once, twice, three times, with as much force as his legs can muster.  
Like always in their late night meetings and ramblings, Mare finds him in some state between feeling terribly empty and eaten by guilt and hurt.  
That's the club for you. Not perched in the 'Maven tossed us away' sandwich anymore, he's been missing out on some evenings of therapeutic ignoring the problem and drinking. The reunion seems to be overdue.

He'd feel flattered she followed him if he didn't know she partially did it because Maven was still up there.

"Hey," He says, feeling miserable. Two figures dressed in black under the light of a moody lantern. The street is littered with trash in front. Fast food bags, plastic cups, cigarette stumps, neatly abandoned before them.  
This is all trash. And dirty. And useless, like the plastic laying around.  
"Hey," She repeats, a little hollow. Her cheeks are flushed under the hood she's wearing, throwing shadows over her eyes in the white light.  
Some sick mixture of snow and rain drips over them. He feels the way it sticks to his hair, making it lie flat on his forehead. He doesn't have a hood and he doesn't even care.

He shouldn't need to apologize all the time but here he is again. It's tiring him. Every time things get a little good they drop and shatter and die.

"I'm sorry." He still says. "I'm sorry this happened. I shouldn't have asked you to come. I should have been more careful."

"You don't need to apologize." She says into the cold air. A huff of white clouds. "Not you."

"No, I know I'm cute and funny to forgive me easy," He tries to joke and fails flatly. "Still got issues, and how that went isn't really good. Someone always needs to apologize so why not me?"

 _It sure as hell won't be Maven. I'd be surprised if I ever see him again._  
He doesn't say it but oh, do they both know. Thomas has waited a long time for any kind of apology and he took him back. And things were good until they weren't.

Because Love is patient, as his mother told him. And his mother is gentle and she is right often. Not to mention the fact she looked so happy when they had dinner. Like he had announced he would marry Maven, plant a flag in a garden of a nice house and settle.  
Well, Thomas thinks darkly, marriage is off the rug for now. Maybe I'll see him again in a few months when one of us decides to play nice again.  
Or maybe, just maybe, something stuck and he's waiting right now in Thomas kitchen.

It would be a pleasant surprise. But he doesn't count on it. It's a spiraling deep void filled with anger. If Maven's anger has taught him anything it is that the misery is real and always looking for company.

He feels the stinging tears welling up. The water burns hot in his ice cold face.

"Ah, damn," He stops, swiping his sleeve over his face. He knows she's watching him. He's almost grateful for that because it means he doesn't get to break together. "It hurts like shit. But I'm not wanting to cause more drama out of it. I don't want to be the overly dramatic gay friend, y'know?"

"Bit late," She says. "You ran off. And I hit him."

"Yeah, you did," He gnaws on his lips. "I'd be lying if I didn't admit I had been thinking about it sometimes these last months. You okay?"

There's a long pause and they don't look at each other.

"I don't know," She answers and it's the most honest answer she has ever been giving him.

He stretches out his hand, taking her cold fingers into his. The fingers bristle, arm twitching. But she doesn't let go.

"Want to walk a little?" He asks, voice very little. "Get out of the rain."

Her eyes wander around. He can read the thought off her nose. "Don't worry, you know it's relatively safe here. My blocks like a grey area."

"We should just put everyone in trouble with cops in your apartment."

He's glad she offers something that's not stinging.

"Yeah, you don't wanna live with me, trust me. I'm super messy."

"I have brothers."

He laughs a little. It feels hollow. But it's alright. It's better than crying.

They take some form of shelter from the drizzle under a close by the entrance of another building. He remembers he used to sleep in some kind of this often when he was homeless.  
It's an almost decent neighborhood compared to the one the crooked house is in. It's even clean and big in comparison to that one and the stilts.

Not fancy uptown, of course, and the apartment building has clearly seen better days, old and rotting and dirty white. But still. It's better than his parent's house and the long-winded pathways by the river.

By now he doesn't hold her hand anymore. They just sit next to each other, one pair of legs stretched out and another pair drawn up to the body.

Looking at his phone, there are a few missed calls.

His wallpaper mocks him, their faces close together, with his idiot grin.

He stares on the faces of the picture for a moment and for a violent long second he feels the need to throw his phone against the wall. When it's passed he is glad he hasn'T done it. Instead, he just takes a deep breath.

 **We're ok. Brb Cookie**  
Is all he writes. Because he's sure either his sister or Cameron have started looking by now.

Her hair is a little wet, but it's not nearly as bad as his own.

He feels like a drowning cat, soggy up to his toes curled in his too thin socks and shoes.

"He cared for me, you know?" Thomas whispers, hugging himself. One part shivering cold, two parts hurt. "He was like...the only good thing I ever had. Even when we fight or he is cold and unkissable. I always know there's something that cares, even if it's so little it might not show. And I know this isn't good. This is terrible, actually. But it's not like this all the time."

 _Standing in a too small kitchen, cooking, fighting over a blanket, watching a restless face with too dark circles under the racing blue eyes._  
 _You're a good person, Thomas._

"Is that why you took him back?" She asks.  
She's actually the first person to ask that.  
Everyone else has just parked their assumptions in front of him.  
He thinks about that. Long. Watching the drizzle fall down, hard cold mirrors of water.

"I have people kicking my ass. Cameron kicks it really well whenever I am too down. Farley always has been kicking it since the day I was a homeless douchebag." He looks over to her, giving her arm a slight nudge. "Even you kick it sometimes. But he's not having anything. He's all alone. You don't leave people you love alone, don't you?"

For a second it almost sounds like an accusation. But it's not, really.

"He was the one that started it." She doesn't need to say any more than that. They scratched the surface of the topics in arguments and late night strolls. Never enough to make it hurt but enough to make it clear.

He played nice until he didn't need to anymore. He has made wrong accusations.

He has repeatedly called her mentally unstable, insulted her, lied about her.

He has followed her around, wrote messages and wouldn't leave her alone.

"Yeah, but I know you'd end it if you could because you're better than that. You want to give him another chance, Barrow, I know it."

Sometimes he wonders if that's the only thing they really have in common. They were never friends when they were younger. Weird, how things go.

He remembers her from afar, hasty looks thinking they'd not get along anyway. Just the weird nice kid hanging around on his own or tagging along with his sister because he'd never made really good friends.

Unpersonal greetings, brusque brushing, not knowing how to act around the other. Sometimes joking, but never really on a personal level.

If people cared at all they never stayed, and so he didn't stay either. It was a good model. Drifting off into some kind of lethargic hurt, telling oneself not to care too much. In the end, he smashed a window because of it. Ran away from home.

Look where they are now. One deep into whatever shit is needed to help and end this suffering and one wanting to fight but knowing he is too weak and too much of a wimp to be the biggest help.

They did bond only because of what happened. He's not sure she would have noticed him otherwise.

It took a broken nose for her brother and a broken heart for her.

Maybe he should just break every bone in his body. Would that help ensure he's not going to lose again?

She crosses her arms, fingers clenched into her own jacket. "I don't know if there's enough left to give it a chance. Even if I wanted to. And I didn't say that."

"Love doesn't fix people. I know that" He says. "And nothing can just erase the past."

"You always say you're stupid, Thomas." Is her only answer and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. He smiles back just the same. Both lost somewhere along the road of memories. "But really, you're patient and kind. I wish I was like that."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He snorts. "If anything, I wish I was more like you. You get shit done. You're pretty and spunky, you got spine. People listen to you."

It sounds a little too admiring. If someone heard it they would think he had a crush on her. It's just his non-existent self-confidence biting into some sort of coping.

He fights with his breath for a moment, strangling his throat.

"You know I was really, really jealous of you? "He huffs out a bitter laugh to cover it up.

"I know," She says. "You ignored me after I invited you to that movie."

"That cinema, oh my- aghh," He kicks the air and laughs again. "Girl, It's all been on repeat between Maven and me since that day. Every time we get it together one of us ruins it. But we just can't stop. And don't get me started on our families clashing. I have been bugging Elara every time I get to meet her. Pretty sure she plans to kill me or has already tried."

"Yeah, I think you're on her hit list. " Mare says and her mouth curls up in a way that shows really clear disgust. Hey, at least in their hatred for Maven's mother they're united as ever.

"Thank you." He huffs."It's weird, I had a crush on a lot of people. But they never got me. Not like he does. He can be really sweet, and cute, you know? All flustered or worried, and I've never felt anything like the moment he kisses me. Whatever he does. But then...he is like this. Like all the demons in his head want out and he's lashing out."

"Yes." She agrees. And now they aren't even hollow smiling anymore. The rain washes over the earth and mutes the sounds of the world. Like they are on some island and the world is far away. "That's a good way...to put it."

"Fuck," He whispers. "What am I supposed to do now? I don't want to leave him."

And then he can't hold the tears back anymore and he cries. It's an ugly sobbing crying, with something raw inside him he had hoped he'd never feel again.

"I can't do this again." he hiccups between two sobs. "But I can't leave. I can't. And I'm sorry for telling you all this. I'm sorry."

He doesn't know how long he cries. He just wipes his sleeves over his face occasionally before giving up and crumbling together on Mare's shoulder. That's how they sit on the island in the rain in the dark.

* * *

 _ **[AN] We got around 6 chapters for the final arc of Chasing Fire left. Yep, I'm not even into the last part. And this started as a One shot about some boys in counseling. I'm like some floppy dog jumping after a ball everytime I see you wrote a comment, daisey. Sorry if it feels like I am holding chapters hostage or anything, but it's srsly coincidence I often update on the same day as your comments, I swear!**_


	28. We'll never be friends

_Cameron_

It's a freezing cold night. It's dark and the clouds in the city sky are gloomy in the distance. Almost perfect weather for chaos to ensure. Like in those movies Thomas sometimes makes her suffer through. Where the weather is always either sunny or bad, a cheap trick to make sure the audience gets the mood.

The text gets to her after she has been shuffling along, not sure to go left or right. There are some places to check. People have their preferred hiding spots, after all.

 **We're ok Brb Cookie**

Lie, lie. But a well-meaning one. And something she has to accept. Or she will just wander through town in the attempt to try and find two people in a lost and cold town.

There's a drama train. It's picking up people left and right and it keeps rolling.

If she could she would derail the train and watch it burn. As it is, she just stands innocent on the sideline of the station. But it passes often and it waits for her, always wanting her to get in.

She finds her way back to the apartment like some sort of cat wandering home. Not hard to find the way after being around so often.

It's not her home though, and it'll never be. But that doesn't mean she can't find something familiar in it.

The first thing she notices isn't very familiar. It's just Maven Calore blocking one of the chairs on the table.

He looks at her for a long silent moment, and there's something pale creeping up his white face, making it even more greyish. Like he fights hard to remain calm and snap something. It would be a short fight. She's positive she could trash him. But somehow she knows it wouldn't give her the satisfaction she hopes for. He's a slimy arrogant prick, still.  
She sits down on the opposite chair, ignoring his blue eyes following her.

"We never had the pleasure." He says. She can still see Barrow's bitch slap, imprinted on his cheek, grey and a little swollen. Cameron sneers a little. _Pleasure, sure_. "I did give Thomas that flash drive for you."  
There's a crack in his voice when he says 'Thomas' and she could almost believe he's sorry. Just almost. And only a second.

"I don't owe you anything." Takes a little discipline to stop herself from throwing a slur at his head.

There's a dry hollow smile, nothing more than the twitching side of his face. "It wasn't my intention to collect a debt."

"What's it about then?"

"Do you know what I gave you?"

She wonders if it's a trick question.

"Something about my brother. And names," Cameron answers carefully. "Dirt. I didn't look at it for too long. But I know there's a list. And most of them have some connections to or are responsible for the new bills and shit regulations in the country."  
That slimy prick hums indifferently. Hannah on the fridge is still diddling on her phone, but she obviously listens closely. She's suspecting another one of Hannah's live tickers because she always documents everything.

"It's a very beautiful compilation of corruption." he agrees."My family is up leading the list, obviously. We always had some interest in politics. Everything that makes one benefit from the situation and controls it, to be sure. My father was a leading figure in bringing the most recent bill to live before...he died." There's an unnoticeable pause and even more greyish, nervous twitching. "My mother perfects whatever he has done. She always does. I'd argue she is more precise and efficient with him gone."

It's speaking for itself. The whole way he talks about his parents. Cameron leaves it uncommented. "So?" she asks instead.

"I was just curious." He gives a gracious wave with his hand, pale long fingers in the air. "My mother knows I gave you that list. I doubt she doesn't find a way to slip out of it. What she did not consider is the fact that it isn't necessarily about the list."  
Now that is interesting. Blackmailing his own damn mother. Or just keeping the back door open to do so. Isn't that something. It's the kind of backstabbing behavior she expects from the silver lot.

"What is it about then?" Hannah asks. For a moment Cameron is reminded that Thomas sister has been one of Farley's people for a while because she stands very straight. And has that look. Easy to forget sometimes.

"If the laws get changed," Maven says. "and you can be sure there's still planning to do so, this whole debate is everywhere, not just here, there'll be cuts deep in whatever freedom you people still have."

"We play the blood card, great." Hannah sighs.

"We both know the blood card has always been played." He says very civilly.

And Cameron agrees silently but would rather bite her tongue off and swallow it than admitting that.

"There's still the matter of the law system. Your people get harder punishment for anything."

Nothing new, sadly. Always has been that way. Cameron crosses her arms and waits for him to continue. An effective pause, a breath, and he does.

"I burned a house and Thomas threw a brick. He would have served some time in jail while no one bothered with me after I promised to not repeat my actions. Measure it. That has no relation. "

"By the way," Hannah asks. "Why did you burn down a house?"

"Because I am a very troubled person." Maven mocks cold. "I thought people made that clear the last months."

Hannah looks back at her phone for a moment, as if that's saving her. "Fine, don't answer."

"Don't be insulted, Hannah, maybe I will tell you when you help me to get my things and leave." Maven offers flatly and still mocking ice cold.  
"I'd understand if Thomas throws you out." She shrugs.

"We all would understand," Cameron adds another shrug.

There's a very unpleasant silence on the table.  
Cameron leans back in her chair, arms still crossed. It creaks a little. Duct tape on the back of it holds the old thing together.

"You worked for Blonos." He sits very still on his chair, dark circled eyes not letting go of Thomas sister. "Which does mean you worked for my mother."

"Not anymore. I got promoted." It doesn't sound very proud. "Up the ladder, switching. I work Samos now. And that means I don't work for your family anymore."

"Ah, yes, Samos." He looks like he is biting on a lemon for a moment. " Regardless. You worked in the building for a while. What's next to it?"

"Another building." Not very specific. Cameron can count the times she has been around the skyscrapers and business parts of the town these last months. not easy to get there anyway. And there's nothing but stone, glass, and cold anyway. "But not belonging to the company. An office building? And some sort of archive in the basements? I am not sure."

"It's a little office not owned but associated with yours. On paper, it's tiny. You may or may have not noticed a rather frequent visit from my mother."

"Secret tunnel," Cameron whispers and shares a frustrated look over the table to where Hannah stands. She looks back and blows out a stream of air. She can almost imagine Thomas pointing accusingly at them because he was right about something in his guts.

"Come again?" Maven asks unfriendly.

They both ignore the pale silver boy on the table that just glares and gloats. "He said there was a reason she was going down and out the back and we said he was wearing too much tinfoil."

"Not like that matters right now." Hannah huffs

"But it does." Maven interjects and they are forced to look at him. "What is the best place to rob people of their freedom and make a moderate to high profit?"

There are a long silence and pale faces staring at walls.

"A prison." Cameron answers. The word _Corros_ on the edge of the flash drive springs into her head. An unwanted image.

Maven moves his hands and claps. Twice, slow. She wants to slap him.

"My family owns three bulding companies. So you can see, building a prison , or having the plans to do so, is a nice byproduct. Makes a lot of money. Builds a lot of jobs. Prisons wouldn't only need to be expanded or newly build. They need equipment, medical assistance, food supply, organization. Where do you think that'll come from? It's been going on for so long. But now with the bombs, well, it's the big deal again. Isn't it exciting?"

"Police is crooked anyway," Cameron mutters. "Paid or racist fuckers."

"The better part of the system is rotten." Maven acknowledges. "It makes things a lot easier. It fits the direction. All the small things that have waited to return and empower the differences and privileges you don't get to enjoy."

Easier?

There's the image of her brother and she feels anger, heat that builds in her bones.

Cameron huffs and turns away.

"I get why it hasn't already made it around. "Hannah says. " You can't just release a massive dump like this into this climate. Not if you don't know what it really means."

"Well, it won't matter anyhow." Maven ignores Cameron with the easiest blank face. "The names on the list are more than enough to spark the question of corruption. Should anyone ever listen to it. I assume there's more than enough plans to stop that. Which is why I even started this sparking conversation."

"Get to the point," Cameron demands.

"One of you runs back to Diana Farley or someone else in charge eventually. " There's something matter of factly about the way he says that. Almost like he couldn't care less about them. " And then things get in motion again. There are enough warranties and accusations to get all of you in for a long time. Never forget I helped to make you terrorists."

"Thanks for reminding us. I'll be sure to tell everyone you gave false testimony about how proud you are of it."

"All I meant to say," Maven clarifies and Cameron sees the way he folds his hands like some crooked politician during a discussion. "Make your moves count and try not to get caught. Thomas would be devastated to see you all gone."

She makes a disgusted sound. Like she gathers spit, a snorting sound in the back of her throat.

"You know," she decides to say then because they'll never be as alone and as civil as this again. "I have the urge to put my boot up your ass when I see you. But I won't."

"Should I thank you now?" he asks, polite on the outside but hostility lurking behind it.

"No?" she snorts and shakes her head slightly. "We'll never be friends, promise. You are still silver, and you're still that rich asshole. But you're not making me hate you in that way anymore. People make it sound like you are some tyrant that wipes the floor with everyone that dares to come too close. But really there's nothing to be scared of. You are toothless behind your venom. You 're petty. And the worst thing is some part of you knows it. You know how you are and you need help. I don't get why Thomas loves you. I see nothing I would like."

She almost expects him to explode. Or more likely implode and threaten her. Something akin to the murderous energy he showed just an hour or so ago. Instead, he smiles again. It's more miserable than cold, barely visible, but with his shoulders tense and some sort of shadow over his face he looks as desperate as one could possibly imagine.

"And that would make two of us."

* * *

She doesn't feel like talking to him anymore. There are three people perched in two little space. But still not willing to scatter. She's telling herself it is because they keep an eye at each other, still not trusting anymore than they can spit. Maybe it's just because they wait for the door to open.

It takes an awfully long time spent in uncomfortable silence. Staring at the screens of their phones, ignoring the tapping volley of grainy frozen drops on the window.

Cameron's heart makes a little relieved jump when the door rattles.

Thomas is wet to the bones. Hair sticking flat to his head, soggy and shivering. He's still not flinching when he closes the door silently. She's not sure she has ever seen him this tense or serious.  
"Where's Barrow?" Cameron asks.  
"I told her I had to settle this myself." Thomas answers.  
"You should change. Maybe shower." Thomas sister says from her permanent residence at the fridge.  
"Yeah. But first up," He sniffs. "Pretty boy. Bedroom. Now. We got something to talk about."  
It could be one of Thomas stupid dirty jokes. If it wasn't so clear there's no joke left in his bones.

Maven takes his fate with an unblinking face. There's nothing that would indicate he's the person that just acknowledged defeat or discussed political corruption relatively civil with people that aren't on his side.

 _Shoveling his own grave, is he?_

She watches their backs retreat down the narrow hallway. The door shuts with a snap.

She expects shouting or even something else.

After that show he should be begging on his knees, she thinks, a little disgusted by the fact they just spent time together and she did not constantly want to sock him right in his nose.

There's nothing that would indicate a fight. It's eerily quiet.

Hannah still stands on her spot next to the sink. She looks at her phone, concentrated, with thumbs flying over the screen.  
"Got plans tomorrow?" Cameron asks.  
"Yeah, sorry. I'm busy after work." She doesn't look up from her phone.

"Don't tell me you got a date."  
It must be the cold. It forces people together, waking the instinct of not dying alone, freezing in the snow.

"I don't really...I have no boyfriend or anything." Hannah says, almost shy. "Just texting Ada."

"You friends now, like, for real? " Cameron asks.

Hannah shrugs.

"I hate my job. I only keep doing it for my parents. But really, I always wanted to go to law school" she says. "Ada is a brain. She remembers everything. She's helping me."

"A lawyer?" Cameron repeats.

"Is that too much?" Hannah sounds critical.

Hannah live streaming and reblogging, the activist from the page book, and bread girl, the lawyer.

"You can be a mean bitch, you'll make a good lawyer. And career is better than whatever shit is going on with dating and people."

Hannah almost looks insulted. "It's not like I couldn't do both."

Cameron looks at her for a moment. Long hair falling over her shoulders, dark eyes set straight. She looks an awful lot like Thomas, but Thomas smiles and goofs all the time, and that grin gives him a puppy look. Hannah's missing out on that. Cameron decides she doesn't want to fight anyone else today. She saves her energy for the case the drama returns. " I didn't mean you were ugly."

Hannah smiles. "There's just...ah forget it, you don't want to hear it."

"I'm best friends with your brother and I keep listening to his ramblings all day." she huffs, deciding to take her fate as the emotional trash can of the universe again. What you do for people you like. "So just spill it."

She shakes her head, putting the phone away.  
"I could have taken the easy road back, with someone that knows me. He was pretty nice. Offered to go out for coffee. But I met someone else at work-" she makes a choking sound, half a laugh. "and I hate how that sounds."

"So you just found someone else, what's the problem? You meet people all the time at work."

"He's not really working there. Just had some relations, I guess."

 _Oh no, not you too._

She sighs, wanting to put her head on the table and hit it hard. "Fancy silver ass, is it?"

"Not going to answer that. But don't worry, Cameron," Hannah sounds very warm, but a little defeated. Her hand pushes and pokes the phone on the table. " I don't even think we were that interested in each other."

"How can you not know if someone is interested?" She doesn't get people. She doesn't get dating. She doesn't like any of it. "You got eyes, other person has eyes, you say 'Hey, I wanna date you' and then it's settled. Instead, you mope , eyes following the other person around like in some sad movie. Why are you people acting like love is rocket science?"

"You're fifteen, stop sassing me." Hannah wrinkles her nose. "Also, follow your own advice. Poor Kilorn's so smooth and all you do is blocking him."

She makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "Ugh, not you too."

And then her face is going all soft and there are some mushy crushy feelings that make Cameron's head go screaming.

"So," Cameron asks, peeping back to the silent door. Awful quiet. Is that good or bad? "How did it go down with the guy?"

"Do you know those days when you see people, and you really, really, hate them?"

Cameron huffs and makes a silent grimace. As if that question needs an answer.

"It started when I got there and that douchebag was blocking the door. And he treated me like I was trash. They always do. I let it slide. Didn't know him anyway. Not wasting breath on people just because they're arrogant, mean and good looking."

"Please don't talk shit about love at first sight." Cameron scoffs softly.

"What? No. He was disgusting." Hannah sounds mildly insulted again. "Love's more of some hard earned respect than forever at first sight anyway. I don't think that even exists."

A small inkling of hope, a single raindrop in the desert that is the desolation of Cameron Cole's suffering through dramatic love triangles, heartbreak and 'It's complicated'.

"Thomas was calling in sick. Everyone was super busy and pissed. I had some pretty bad time. My boss was an asshole. My coworkers were treating me like shit. I almost exploded in a meeting, right in their faces. Everyone noticed. I couldn't calm down. And then that asshole was blocking the elevator again and I lost it. Like, I literally lost it."

"I hope you let centuries of oppression and anger out," Cameron answers, leaning forward in her seat.

"You bet I did." Hannah answers."It was really, really ugly. And we didn't make it up or shit. We were both pretty sure we were right. You know I try to not get personal, but I can't really stand it how people always think they are better. So I was super personal. I think I made some pretty mad comments about his hair." She scratches her nose, clearly satisfied. It's almost cute. "His hair is ridiculous, by the way. Pff."

"Next time I saw him I had been promoted instead of fired. And he pushed the elevator button instead of blocking the way." She chuckles again, more honest this time.

Cameron knits her eyebrows together. "That's it?"

"I told you, it's nothing serious. I should probably go on the coffee date with my ex and forget it."

"Yeah maybe, or just learn to be a kickass lawyer and do whatever you wanna do. If it's dating an asshole that'll probably treat you shitty, go on, your brother knows all about it."

"You're really a good cookie," Hannah answers and takes her phone again.

"Screw you, bread girl," Cameron answers almost affectionate.

In the end, she gets to sleep on one side of Hannah's bed, rolling into her blanket and listens to the sounds of the apartment. It's different than the sounds of the crooked house. Fewer people, too little space. The pipes don't creak. Just the sound of the clock ticking and the fridge brimming in the kitchen. Then some slight shuffling when a door opens, the slightest whispers of two voices. Not angry, no shouting, that's good, she decides.

There are no keys rattling or other doors opening. She listens intently, but the voices are too far away anyhow. And they stop. Someone taps over the small hallway or through the kitchen. Things get moved.

The next thing she knows the door opens and there's some light.

It illuminates the skinny silhouette of her best friend, wearing a too big unicorn shirt and hugging a pillow and a blanket.

"Hey," he whispers. "Got space there?"

"Hm." Is all the answer he gets. With a small leap, he finds some space between the two of them.

Hannah makes a protesting sound when he squeezes in.

"You single now again?" Cameron asks.

"Nah," Thomas mutters and pulls the blanket up to his chin in the darkness. "I don't think so. I'm just really hurt. Gotta settle around it somehow. Got more talking to do tomorrow."

"You are too nice. You should have kicked him out."

"Maybe I'm just weak," Thomas answers and puts an arm around her. She's irritated for a moment, then she just lets it slide. He hugs her for a while before he curls together again.

In the morning, the alarm goes off early. It's dark outside the curtains.

Too many people and one bathroom is a problem Cameron is too familiar with. She just waits in line and hopes for hot water.

When she's finished trying to scrub the bad feeling off her skin, she finds Thomas and his sister bickering in the kitchen.

"Yeah but you never wear a skirt to work," he says, slurping loud from his bowl. It looks like some deformed cereal and a banana, but with Thomas, you can never know. His back is pretty much turned on his lovely boyfriend. Cameron greets him with a small disgusted sound in the back of her throat. More than he deserves. Still here, sipping nonchalantly on his coffee, he gives her a stink eye back. "You held me a lecture once because I said you should wear your hair down."

"Yes well, I try something." Is the snippy answer.

"Trying to get laid," Cameron explains.

"Ohhhh." Is the answer behind another long slurp. "That explains a lot. Good luck, bread girl."

"I hate you two."


	29. Nanny's box of tricks

_Cameron_

The streets are silent in the early morning, as they are always. Cars pass sometimes. A wooshing sound, wheels cracking over the asphalt. It gets more and more ruined the closer she gets to the crooked house.

When you have no reason to be out in bad weather, you don't do it. She fights against the mud on her boots, the wet , slick angry cold creeping everywhere.

Even though her nose is warm under the scarf she can feel it.

She could have taken a train. But she doesn't trust to step out alive, somehow. The words shared on a kitchen table in a shabby but lovable apartment are too present. If it snows next time it's going to stay again. Now, nothing of the drizzle and grainy rain is remaining.

It washes in small rivulets over the streets. Dirty and stained as the rest of it.

And then there's something else of a more personal nature she might need consider rethinking. If people really believe she's dating someone just because she likes spending time with him, something is off the mark.

Or is she just really oblivious?

She doesn't get it.

 _Follow your own advice, Cameron_. She remembers the words. And it's really not that hard, is it? It's not supposed to be a ditzy drama. Who has time and energy for that shit? Right, everyone she knows.

Just got to talk it out. No big deal.

Her keys rattle a little as her stiff fingers try to open the door.

She's greeted with heat, warm air, at least. Means nothing malfunctioned in her absence. That is good.

She knows for sure her pants are dirty, her toes are frozen and her hair is a mess.

She still stands very silent, pressing her lips together and listening for a moment.

"Wouldn't that be better?" she hears Kilorn ask. "Oh, come on, you know I am right."

"If only I was younger," Nanny answers. "Maybe it'd fall for your charm. Try Ada."

Follow your own advice, Cameron.

 _Ugh, whatever._ She sniffs, grimacing for a moment.

Then she decides to get it over with.

She decides to just waltz straight in.

"Look who's back." Nanny slurps on her tea with the grating decency of someone gladly taking in any warmth in their bones. "You could have called."

"No big deal, was with Thomas." She lies because she doesn't feel like buying a ticket for the drama train. And somehow she's sure the most important parts already made the round in some way or another. They always do. Because if a lot of people are perched in together they talk a lot.

There's a pair of amber eyes half hidden behind a phone and another green one glancing over from the other side.

"Hey," she takes the chair. It screeches over the tiles a moment.

"Yesterday was weird, I hear." Kilorn is really trying. Not his fault she is not sure what she wants to say. Their shoulders brush when she turns to his side.

 _Dammit Cameron, rocket science, come on._

"Yeah, Fish Boy." She answers, telling the truth. "Was a whole next level of weird."

"Want something to drink?" Nanny offers a lifeline.

They spent a while just chatting. Eventually, Cameron watches silently, taking in the weird kind of group they are. She just feels her toes coming back to live, wiggling them silently. Sipping from a mug, feeling the heat radiating into her palms holding tight. She doesn't look over again. Cameron just stays, making a face. Her social fifteen minutes are over. She didn't get through with what she was planning. Wasted time.

The ring of the door is high screeching and disruptive. Whatever friendliness existing is gone, vanishing. Cameron almost jumps up from the chair. She's not the only person in the room.

"You expect someone?"

Nanny gets up from her space by the stove. "I check. You know the drill."

Then she is gone from her usual space.

Cameron has already moved two or three steps before she stops herself.

„Ma'am," the man says, and Cameron watches very closely how his dark haired head pries into the frame of the door but isn't able to see more than the dim hallway. They can't see Cameron's tall frame unmoving. They don't see the towering shadows above the steps or Ada and Kilorn in the kitchen. Everyone is listening.

„Oh, officers," Nanny's voice is blatantly wrong for everyone that knows her a little. It sounds like she has aged, lost the sharp teeth. Chattering and friendly. She's bend a little over too. If Cameron could see her face she's sure she would only see a friendly old lady. Completely harmless. „What a nice surprise. What can I do for you?"

It has some sort of effect because the dark head disappears. Nanny opens the door the tiniest bit more, leaning against it. Not that they would see anything. But from the inside, Cameron gets a better peek.

„We have been told there were suspicious activities-„ the man starts but gets cut off by an older guy. Sneering face he doesn't hold a grain of sympathy or respect. They are red and they are dirt.

Everyone in the room and beyond is tense.

„Are you hiding terrorists and criminals?"

For a moment the air is too stale and hot. But one round of applause for Nanny, because she doesn't even need another breath to answer.

„I hide no one," Nanny says, keeping the grateful grandmother spot on. „Everyone is a guest in my house. But there were suspicious activities, I am so glad there's finally police around. I can show you, actually."

„Ma'am," Cameron hears the younger one say. „This is a matter of-„

Nanny doesn't let him get very far. „Really, so glad, some those young people from the neighborhood, you know, no manners? They didn't have such a fine upbringing as you. Hanging around the whole day, vandalizing. Look, over there, what does that word even mean? I hope it isn't something nasty. We don't like nasty around here, no we don't. And what they did to my neighbor's yard, that poor soul?"

She moves so weakly and frail Cameron supresses a snort. One foot , then the other, and next thing everyone knows she is out of the door, huddling the officers back. Clearly distracting them.

Cameron takes a breath. Moves a step back. The edge is still in the air. It doesn't leave like that. They all know the deal.

Time is sticky and thick, like a spoon stuck stirring syrup.

Minutes go by without much actual events. They feel like hours.

Kilorn and Ada stand in waiting, tense back and expecting the worst.

Cameron shares that sentiment. She has strangely enough very much trust for Nanny. But one can never know what's going to happen.

There's a fistful of anger in her stomach. The crooked house is the first stable roof she has had for a while, the very first in this town. Without her brother, this place still somehow provides some weird reliability.

It's the closest thing to home she has.

The guys snoring, leaving dirt, laughing in the evening on the table. Ada sitting on the bed, reading words she'll never forget or tinkering, Nanny on the stove.

And even this little bit of warmth. This hard earned old house with the pipes leaking, heating and electricity failing and being repaired by her and many other hands. Even that is too much. They want to take it away. Because all they can is punishment and taking things away. Making lives miserable.

"She got this." She suddenly hears a voice whisper next to her.

All Cameron can do is give him a nod. And they wait. And finally the door closes.

Nanny's tousled hair appears. She doesn't walk bend anymore.

"Close call."

"It's good for now. Younger one is enthusiastically trying to find the teenagers loitering around and smoking the devils lettuce."

"Devils lettuce?" Ada repeats.

"Nanny, you are one mean old lady."

"Why, thank you," she leans against her usual spot, patting Cameron's arm on one side , Kilorns on the other. "Good thing you didn't listen to me when I asked if Mare wanted to stay here."

" We need to find a new place," Cameron finds it difficult to ask. She still does. "right?"

"Maybe." Nanny just answers. "Maybe. Not today. But soon enough."

The day runs by, somehow. Her hands keep her busy. It doesn't help so much. But it has to do.

Late at night, with her little belongings stacked in the backpack, it'd be easy to leave. People would probably worry, some few. But not too many. Of course, she doesn't leave. Things hold her in place. Obligations, perhaps. Or just very personal connections. And she doesn't have to be anywhere.

She doesn't have to be anywhere.

Because her family is either locked up or dead.

Instead she sneaks out of the room again. Ada breathes silent, a huddled form under a blanket illuminated by the faintest of light that breaks through the closed panels over the window.

She can blindly move down the stairs. One foot in a sock, then the other, quietly. She also finds the switch in the kitchen easy enough.

The light bulb flickers again. Electricity always hums. It's a sound so familiar she can almost count down the heartbeats between the flickers and buzzes.

If her brother was here he'd listen closely, the more socially adept sibling. She's always the one blowing punches in the background.

It just proves the point. It just proves it all and she hates it.

With some hesitation she takes the nightly routine to the chair and slumps down. Head resting on the table. Brow feeling the scratched cold surface under her cheek. She pulls an arm over her head.

For a long time it is only her thoughts and the house.

Then the stairs creak and she can hear footsteps.

"Not now, Fish Boy," she whispers, the arms tighter over her head. Because he's the only person that would even talk to her on her nightly adventures through the house.

There's a hand touching her, warm and not very strong. ItIt takes a moment of silence to realize her mistake. When she looks up she sees a very familiar face.

Go back to bed, Nanny's eyes say when her mouth doesn't need to.

"Give me a second, I almost got it." Cameron says, taking a long breath.

She expects a question, or maybe even a demand, telling her to go back to her room.

"It's alright to miss your family, you know." Is the almost gentle answer instead.

Nanny takes the seat next to her.

"I know what you will say." She feels the hard gritted expression on her face. Nanny doesn't deserve her wrath, but she still gets it. "You only want to reassure me, but it doesn't help, it's fucking empty. So stop wasting both our times."

"Your rudeness always has something very honest, Cameron."

"This is such a shitshow." Cameron whispers. There's always that image unwanted in her head. A silver flash drive with the word Corros stamped in it. One little thing with so much impact.

Nanny looks sharp for a second, lost somewhere along a road that's without a doubt plastered with loss and hate and sorrow. "It's always been this way. But maybe you'll get to see it change."

"Don't talk like you'll drop fucking dead any second." Cameron huffs out because the thought sends an unwelcome wave of worry down her spine.

That little woman is the only glue holding them together in this place.

Nanny gives her a mirthless smile, wrinkles around her eyes. "I'm old, Cameron, no way to talk around it. Only thing that is left to do is go out with a fight, isn't that what you would say?"

That's a depressing thought. It is true, of course. It's almost pragmatic. Everyone dies. People die all the time. One more or one less, there's nothing special about it.

One goes, one comes, and the wheel keeps spinning.

Nanny's pep talks don't really help. But they aren't unwelcome either.

* * *

"Need to talk." She says later when she's sure she has it all together. Not night anymore. But the horror still being forced to leave won't retreat until they actually do leave, she wagers.

She caught him halfway in the door, ready to leave.

"Never did anything good start with that sentence." he answers.

She stares at him a while, takes in his face, his green eyes. Really no wonder there's a lot of girl that would fall if he is smooth. Cause he can be really smooth. Not stumbling goofy like Thomas. And not as slimy or arrogant as other people she's met.

It's really not rocket science. She's just going to prove it.

"Why are you looking like that?" He looks genuinely worried now.

"Let's not make a drama out of it." she starts. "I guess I wanna date you. You interested?"


	30. Kind of working

**[AN] Just a shoutout because 'Chasing Fire' hit the 1k view mark, thank you for reading, for the support and for everything! I never posted works online before, so I appreciate every little thing!**

* * *

 _Thomas_

Not too long until Christmas. The world has completely transformed into a cold and slippery mess.  
The train is an overflowing mess. Stuffed and filled with so many people they squeeze against the windows. The air seems thin in this kind of crowd. He would have been fine to have a corner for himself. To his surprise, he finds out people can actually make room when someone barks and yells at them. Friendly asking didn't do anything, but that seems to work , because his sister channels her inner badass and people actually listen to someone who wears heels that could probably stab them through the eye.  
Actually taking the first free seats as fast as possible, they at least don't get hit with elbows anymore. Thomas still bends sideways because someone's bag is a little too close to his head for comfort.

"So." He looks over her shoulder, eyes scanning the screen and finding some social media tab.

Someone is using one of his drawings as thumbnail. The face behind the red bars is extremely popular.

But at least no one is bothering him personal anymore. His online activity was always rather limited. He has one personal page with some pictures and the almost spamming of stupid videos some night ( yes, he is that person in your friend list you block because they annoy you with the twentieth dog video). And then there's the stuff about art and sketches, even some brave pictures of the tattoos he has done this year. Not like he's famous. Probably still more than he has expected to find. And he can rub it into his fathers face from time to time. Almost no vile commentary on him or his art. Bullying is stagnating. He can imagine people have just moved on a long time ago. He had his fifteen minutes of anger and insults.

 **FACE IT** , the title under the strained face behind bars says.

Then there's some small blurb of text, coming clearly from someone called 'Bread girl' with some sort of cupcake as an icon and it isn't hard to figure out who posted that.

He watches her swish and slides over the screen. She doesn't bother to hide anything.

There are some text messages and chats she reads or closes, but she doesn't answer right now. Just a glance to see one says 'Ada' and the other says 'Diana'.

"So?" Hannah repeats, putting the phone down.

"Sorry about that...I dunno. The thing that happened."

"As far as I know everyone wants to slap Maven Calore from time to time. And hey, you actually made him sit down and reconsider. That's more than I can say I would have done."

He thinks about the late night discussions . Very polite, careful, not exactly friendly.

"We have a lunch date later." is his only answer. Because he's far from over getting attacked. An apology is fine, but it doesn't take back words that were yelled and hissed through the room, burning and searing. Only aiming to be an accusation that will hurt.

"In public? Like a regular couple?"

"Yeah." Thomas just throws a look over. His expression crumbles a little, not able to get over the sting, like some shard of his barely repaired heart decides to just show how fragile it is.

She gives him that smile she always gave him whenever he came home bruised and bloody, dirty and beaten, hand slightly touching his hair a moment. Like he's ridiculous but at the same time the most precious thing in the world. Worrying, clearly. "That's good, Tommy."

"Why do you wear a dress in the middle of winter?" He can't stop himself to ask and bombards her. "Aren't you freezing? Is this an office romance? Is it one of your colleagues? Red? Or Silver? Is it weird if I didn't think you'd ever date someone not Red?"

"Just because I don't like how people are treated and I want improvement doesn't mean I need to absolutely hate everyone," she mutters, trying to sort the curling brown strands back in the knot on her head. "I just want everyone to be equal, not a purge."

"Yeah but you're pissy when it comes to arrogance. And you absolutely are that peace and empowerment girl. Weird to say it out loud, but, ugh, I thought you had a thing for Farley a while back. You cut your hair like the actual same way."

"I'm not dating anyone anyway." She smiles, a little defeated.

"Why the dress then?"

"I refuse to answer that."

"Not like people refuse to answer any question I ever have," Thomas mutters, thinking about too many faces he worries about.

* * *

Work is as mean and tedious as he remembers. His arm already hurts a little again, but he can't take another day off if he wants to stay. If it wasn't about paying rent no one would ever bring him to move around this building. It holds nothing good or comforting. It's only people perched in boxes and on tables.

He can barely wait to escape for a break.  
Sadly enough, someone that usually is tedious and neurotic as Maven when it comes to being on time writes five texts to say he will be late. And so there's little to do but sit in the lobby, feet pulled on with dirty shoes flippant on the metal and plastic.  
Thomas often carries stuff for drawing around. Notebooks, anything really, so killing time isn't that hard.  
Cameron's face on the paper is half broken open, skin cracking. Like the mold is cracking open to reveal there's something even more beautiful under it. Hard on the outside, but much more behind, one could say. The pencil isn't very good, or very sharp anymore. It's barely more than a stump he has to viciously grip between his fingers.

The bottom is also clustered with bite marks. Bad habit.

"Hello, Thomas." A voice to his right ear says. When he looks up from the paper he sees very gray eyes and straight black hair framing a pretty face.

"Oh hey." He remembers the way Maven glowered and twitched, trying to hide his interest in how Thomas would ever know Iris. He still smiles a little at her. Because she 's nothing but nice to him, and he can't start questioning every act of kindness openly. Else he'll end up as paranoid and cautious as some of the people he loves. "Wondered if I would run into you again."

"Family business," she shrugs it off. There's always something about the way she dresses. Not like it's inappropriate. But it certainly is chosen to flatter her. It's not hard to do that, he supposes, when you look as pretty and fit.

"Thought as much," he answers.

"I heard you were injured."

She doesn't call it an accident, but not outright attempted murder either. It's probably meant to be polite.

"Pushed down some stairs, but no worry, have a thick skull, so I am fine."

"Glad to hear that."

"You supposed to be somewhere? I'm just waiting to get picked up, don't want to hold you down."

"It's perfectly fine." She sits down next to him, hands folded in her lap, and he puts his foot down, sitting up straight too. He moves the pencil in his hand, tapping the paper slightly.

Her eyes follow the motion, and the next thing he knows she studies the image of Cameron on the page, with interest.

"Just practice." He tries to play it down.

"It's pretty. She's pretty. And it's telling something." She answers. "You are talented."

"Thanks. I kinda like faces, I guess." he sniffs. "Still working on most of it tho."

He looks over at her. Would be rude to just shove the topic away. And he will probably share some of the images not only with the people he drew but with people looking at his blog. Why not get an opinion first? And someone with that lot of pretty tattoos on her back ought to appreciate art.

"Want to take a look?" he offers the book.

There are some scattered notes in his lanky writing. But she doesn't take her time to read it, eyes only flying over it and instead, she just studies all the faces.

His sister is half flower, half human, with some kind of daisy in her hair and on her throat, like she's the queen of hippies. The petals are soft, they form lines and flowing patterns.

The next one is just for his friends, and they are not even half done. The only one that's remotely recognizable is Farley, with lines indicating bright light surrounding her head.

He purposefully skips the pages for Maven and Mare, because that's a little too close for comfort.

Then there's one page only for Elara.

He had half forgotten about this. Where the images of his sister and his friends are almost soft, this is more rough and harsh. The lines are angry and it shows. Sharp jaw and thin lips, face half dissolved into sharp pieces. Diamond, colorless and perfect, impossible to splinter, and yet there it is, and it cuts everything that has the misfortune to meet her. It cuts deep and without effort.

Now he draws on the memory, remembers the night he did this, some sleepless morning staring at her face, not able to let it go from the screen. Creeping straight through his thoughts even though she wasn't even present.

At first, he thought about scales, some snakeskin, but that wouldn't have done her justice. Yes, she is a snake and a pretty poisonous one, but she'S also the most relentless and stone cold bitch he's ever had the displeasure of meeting.

He remembers staring at the finished sketch and the way he put it away, closing it and showing it far away. Like banishing a curse between the lines and pages. It clearly did not work. Because he won't ever forget the way she can make him feel worthless and little. And because the anger masks a fear, even though he tries to never show that too clearly. She's always been terrifying to him.

It's only a little embarrassing for someone else to glance at the images, because hopefully, Iris can't guess the intention behind it.

He snaps the book shut and her upper body retreats again.

"I already said it," Iris says friendly. "You're talented."

"Yeah, but not as talented as that person that made the tattoos on your back. That's A-plus work, and mine is...hm.." he looks at his hand where the flames curl around his fingers like a promise.

"You did that yourself?" she asks.

He finds himself gushing and talking, words blabbering out of his mouth for a while, and he can't think of the last time he had a pleasant day at work. People around here never talk much to him outside of small demands or orders, and they don't even remember his name properly.

"Hey um...It probably sounds like I am trying to pick you up or anything," He scratches the tip of his nose thoughtful. " And maybe it's just weird. But I like you. You have nice tattoos. You're not treating me like dirt. So...I dunno..You aren't from around here. If you want, we could hang out sometime? I know it sucks to be stuck alone."

"That's sweet." She says, with her lips curling up into a smile. A pretty one, really. Everything about her is pretty and sweet and calm. He actually wonders a second again if it is even real because sometimes Maven's paranoia and his own street days have left some marks on him. " You are such a nice person, Thomas."

"I mean...I try sometimes." he tilts his head slightly, looking at her. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"You have a phone, right?"

"Sure."

There's a short silence with the exchange of numbers, fingers typing over screens.

His phone chirps a moment later, and a message pops up.

"I guess I see you later," He gets up, stuffing things into his bag. "Just text me if you want to hang out, okay?"

"It took a while." Maven says, and there are snowflakes in his dark hair. He blinks a little irritated, and it's almost endearing. None of them even tries to get touchy. Right call. He was so mad he couldn't even sleep in the same room. And they are in public. Public display of any affection would be too much either way. Thomas is half content with that. Sure, sometimes there's nothing better than the image of holding someone's hand and just strolling along. But as always, there's that part of him expecting backlash. "I hope you still have some time."

"Sure." Thomas shivers a little when he steps out into the cold. "Met Iris. She kept me company. It was really nice."

Something sour creeps right into Maven's face.

"Want to say something?" Thomas asks.

"If I were you," Maven answers. "I'd stay away from Iris Cygnet."

"What? But she is my new best friend! Soulmates, you could say." Thomas can't stop himself. "We plan matching tattoos, a feather maybe, or stars."

"Thomas." Is the only answer.

"What is it with you two?" Thomas puffs out a cloud of air into the cold sky. "Got history?Is this some business thing with your mother again? Please tell me she is not just playing nice."

There's no answer, only a tightly pressed thin line of a mouth, almost cruel and vicious.

"You don't wanna tell me why you dislike her, fine. But don't expect me to make a beeline around everyone you hate. Because then I would have no friends at all."

There is something conflicted in the way Maven frowns. Thomas knows the deal by now. "I promised you lunch."

Thomas' hands are cold. He buries them as deep as possible into his pockets. "Yes, you did." Thomas agrees. "Better keep your end of that bargain."


	31. Please don't let go

_Thomas_

In the end, it's not enough time to go somewhere to eat properly, much to Thomas demise.

Maven blames the weather for being late, Thomas just pats his stomach until they can agree to grab a coffee. At least Thomas gets some cookies. And cake.

"That's the lunch I want every day, by the way."

He remembers they used to meet like this when Thomas was homeless, just so it was warm enough.

Maven decides to stay silent instead of disagreeing, watching Thomas eat with the same kind of wonder as he always does. Eating is probably the wrong word. It is more like watching a snake swallow food whole. No one expects a skinny nothing like him to eat so much in so little time. He supposed after all this time Maven would get used to it. It's sweet he doesn't.

 _Add that to the list of his redeeming qualities,_ the part of him pissed as shit and hurt from getting yelled at comments.

"I wanted to talk to my brother again. Try, maybe, at least." He turns the cup in his fingers like it's a diamond.

There's some resentment to talking about anything personal and private in a place where people can see you. Luckily no one pays them any mind. One guy throws a stink eye over but just because of how and what Thomas eats instead of an actual clue what could even be going on between those two guys sitting in the corner the farthest to the entrance and windows.

They got one side look and a stink eye on the way, when their faces were flushed. One slightly pink, one gray on the tip of the nose.

Thomas tries to smile it away when people look that way.

"That's great." Thomas chews thoughtful and licks his lips."Did you tell your mother my family asked if you want to spend Christmas over at my house?"

He can't imagine the reaction. Maybe she'd laugh it off. She always thinks Thomas is utterly ridicolous and useless anyway.

"I'm avoiding her right now. She's not in particularly good mood."

 **You two.**

There is a question Thomas never dared to ask. Sometimes they seem to be the same person. And still, he's never seen someone so cold and mean as Elara. He's sure that behavior isn't healthy.

There are a million red flags. He wonders how anyone could ever not chose to see it.

"Your mom probably just needs to destroy some more lives to lift her spirits again." Thomas huffs before he can stop himself. "Maybe fly some with her broom, enjoy the fresh air."

A grim amused line settles around Maven's mouth a moment. "It's good to know your dislike is still mutual."

"I never started it. Do I have to remind you- she told me she could easily murder me? Many, many times. " He shrugs even though the thought sends some jolt of horror and alarm through his bones. No one really likes the thought of getting murdered, and it doesn't help when there is a relatively fresh memory of someone actually trying. "Can I ask you something?"

There's caution behind Maven's eyes, but he surrenders easily for now. "Sure."

"I've asked you multiple times to get the hell out of there. Sometimes you even agree." Thomas licks the rest of his cake off from his fork. "You can't be happy with her, can you? Did she ever...I don't know, do anything really, really _motherly_?"

He thinks about his own mother, tired but patient with more than one pesky kid bouncing around the house, yelling and screeching, fighting and forgetting the reason why they fought, laughing and dragging mud through the whole house.

He can't imagine Elara cleaning up after Maven dragged dirt into a hallway.

He can't imagine Maven dragging dirt into a house at all, perfectly mannered. He was probably that child that only sits around decorative somewhere when guests come and gets ushered off anyhow. Thomas has seen enough to have a crucial understanding of how trashy some people treat their children, especially when they think they're the kings and queens of the world.

The question makes Maven frown slightly, knitting his brow. "What would that even mean?"

"I dunno, mothers protect their kids, right? They always say that." Thomas grimaces. "No one cares more for a kid than their mom, trying to keep it out of harm."

Maven hums indifferent. His expression is so absent and cold Thomas wonders if he's even seeing him at all. He just sits there, a few heartbeats, eyes somewhere Thomas can't reach.

"I suppose," He then says, not very loud, not very low, somewhere tuned in the middle. Inoffensive, almost rational. For a moment he looks like the boy that hunches his shoulders when he is uncomfortable, hands glued in his pockets, lost, before he gets a grip and there is barely anything betraying his emotions. "If we go by that definition, _motherly_ is the perfect word to describe her. No one ever cares more for what I do than my mother."

Thomas only stares at the dark-rimmed eyes, pale face, thin form of his boyfriend on the other side of the table, barely in this sphere of reality some days.

He thinks about the way he asked Cal for any kind of advice.

This whole dysfunctional mess runs way too deep.

"My mother and me," Maven says, clasping his hands in front of him. " have a complicated relationship."

"You know, I can't argue with that." Thomas surrenders, with his palms outstretched. "Just...I don't want to end up like the last times."

Thomas repeats a sentence he has said the last days too often, like some sort of mantra. "I don't have the energy to pull out of that again, please don't make me go through this shit again."

To his utter surprise and disbelief, Maven's hand actually reaches over and touches Thomas. The shortest and most fleeting moments. Not long enough to actually make Thomas question if he even wants Maven's hand there, not long enough to break it off. Just long enough to feel the warmth behind the touch.

"I won't. I shouldn't have brought it up that evening. I won't make it an accusation again." It sounds less begging, bartering, negotiating than it did the first few times they went through this.

"I know. I really want to believe you." Thomas decides to take a break from the discussion. "Give me a moment. Just a moment. I'll be right back."

Whoever invented bathroom stalls should get all the prizes. He can't count on how many times he has hidden in one. He just sits down, feet against the door, looking at his phones in some dull hope someone has anything nice to say to him. Some magical solution, to make things better.

"Thomas, " Shade's voice says instead when he checks his voicemail. He can't really say what it sounds like. There's nothing unusual about it. But it's somehow feeling wrong. "You're probably at work. Just so you know, moving again. And maybe we'll not be around the next time. "

Hiding and occasionally going missing is one thing. They call at least. Or you hear something from someone else.

On itself nothing weird. It's part of their friendship they keep off the radar sometimes. That's part of the reasons they never fought even when Thomas was an insufferable homeless idiot. Respecting borders and habits.  
Still, there's always a difference between staying off radars and saying goodbye. Something in Thomas' gut clenches tightly.  
Now he knows why he doesn't like this.

 _A goodbye._

This is a goodbye _again._

They have done this before. And every time they leave him behind something bad happens.

"Don't get your ass in trouble the next weeks. It'll probably get rough. And you finally got your life back on track."

A cracking sound and a very familiar female voice interrupt whatever else there might be still left to say.

"Diana says you better don't do the Thomas maneuver."

Thomas huffs because he still doesn't know what that even means. But he imagines Farley with her slowly showing baby belly under a blanket or too big shirt, shoveling some food in her mouth she usually would never have cared for. The thought makes him happy for a split second. Then it makes him sad.

"Keep an eye on everything for me, okay? "

He listens to the sounds of the dying call, the last words, and then there's just a beeping and it is gone, some noise swallowed by the world. Just another call ended. Another voicemail over. If this was the last time he'd ever hear from Shade Barrow, it would be a sorry excuse of a farewell.

Thomas sniffs, but he still just stares at the door of the bathroom stall, not able to really give up on whatever bad thoughts are swirling through his brain.

With every goodbye and every second, they are away he is sure he will never see them again for good. That they get shot and killed, arrested and locked up. That he'll lose them and that he knows he can't do anything. He always was rather useless in all their efforts.  
Isn't that what always happens? He is always dead weight on their ankles. People have to take responsibility for him.

Look after him.

Thomas with a broken nose, getting patched up because he couldn't stop crying in the ditch he was hiding, with Shade being unfortunate enough to notice. He remembers the burning hurt and the way he couldn't even properly breathe.

And then, of course, there are countless hours spent on Farley's old and tiny couch.  
Like some stray animal that you feed but it never stays too long.

A car ride, a smile, a hand patting his back.

 _Better stay out of this one._

 _You're not that awful of a person, Thomas._

Thomas feels like he needs to vomit.

He stares at the phone in his fingers.

Then he just stuffs it in one of his pockets.

Not willing to go through the trouble to call back. They've played that before. Just this summer, they dumped him, _for his own safety_. Because he's useless and without any ambition. Because he is lazy and silly.

Because all he ever did was hanging around his screen at home, safe, drawing stupid images no one cares about anyway.

Maybe his father has always been right.

Maybe he needs to reevaluate his life choices. Maybe being some underling and lackey no one ever cares about is just the right thing to keep doing. At least it pays the bills.

Nothing in his life is on track. He hates it all. He hates this city and he has never hated anything as intense as looking through the window on a stuffed train. Worker bees humming to their respective places and dying of exhaustion. And his face half in between, healing cuts on his chin only faint marks. The crooked tip of his nose, the tangled mess of a scarf handed down.

 _It pays the bills. Say, Thomas, could your scribbles on paper do that? I always told you to stay away from people preaching about equality. Just know your place, have a nice home. You can stop trying to provoke people. You've ruined your chances already, dropping out of school. Almost going to jail. Ruining your looks with that stuff on your arms and hands._  
Weird, he can picture his father perfectly. He avoids thinking about him. Getting destroyed during family dinners and holidays is enough. He was always much closer to his mother. At least she didn't tell him to stop being the person he just was. Puberty was the start of the end. The ok Dad was still there. But the aftermath of all of this isn't doing them a favor. Maybe they are simply meant to be not too close. Better this way. The disappointment would hurt him more otherwise.

Thomas takes a deep breath. Turns the water on, splashing it over his face, not caring about the drops of water that run down his collar and neck in the messy and careless process. He welcomes the cold.

If anyone could slap him now, please. He'd welcome it. Because not even something simple and cute as a lunch date is _simple and cute_ in his life.

Where is Mare Barrows slap when he needs it? Or Cameron's brutal fist in his shoulder.

His hands brush his hair back, just so he doesn't hit the wall.

Staring at his reflection like so many, way too many days. It's fine, it's all going to be okay.

When that isn't even close to the truth.

Maven finds him standing next to the sink after an endless amount of shallow breaths. "Thomas?"

He takes a moment to look up. "What the fuck did I give to my friends when I asked you to find something about Cameron's brother?"

Maven takes one very controlled breath. "I don't know if a lunch break is enough time to answer that."

"Just start somewhere, because I hate it when you all just act like I am too stupid to understand it anyway."

"Not here." Maven looks sickly pale in the unflattering neon light.

Then he surprises Thomas the second time by offering his hand. "Come on, let's get your things."

And even though Thomas isn't sure he wants to, he just takes the offer and the hand , just a moment, just so he has at least the strength to move at all.

* * *

He's tired and cold when he finally returns home. But that's only because he couldn't just walk right home after this day. He could barely concentrate on work. He hasn't answered his phone even though people probably think he has died somewhere in the cold.

It started promising enough and it has ended in a shitfest. At least he has made a new friend and found out some things that have the impact of a cannon ball.

He doesn't expect anything except a shower and his bed. Instead, he gets greeted with commotion.

"Hey," he looks at the faces stuffed in the kitchen. They all stare expectedly back. "you have no home or what?"

"Not really," Barrow says first, dry, making Thomas smile.  
"Not at all," Warren adds, making a gesture with his hand supporting the statement.  
Cameron just shrugs.

Thomas wants to kiss them all and never ever let go.

"I love you're deciding to hang out, but I really don't know if I am good company."

No one seems to want to say something mean at that. So they try and say nothing. Not even Cameron says a word. He appreciates the effort but something seems off.

He doesn't like the quiet so much.  
Not one of them answers his silent question and he doesn't dare to say it out loud.  
Nothing about the voice mail. About the unsettling farewells that always seem to occur between him, Diana Farley and Shade Barrow.

"We didn't really come to hang out," Kilorn admits.

He likes that even less than the silence.

"It's more of a goodbye."

"What? You too?" He feels the weight of that. They're all some extended family for him by now. The thought that he can't just drop by or meet up is terrifying him. Gone for good. Leaving him behind.

Family isn't supposed to leave you behind, right? Even if they say they do it to keep you out of trouble.

"Maybe." Cameron answers. "I am just sure I can't stay in the crooked house. Fish Boy, Nanny, Ada and the others too. Cops dropped by twice the last days. Next time Nanny can't fend them off anymore, she says."

"There will be some kind of surprises the next days," Mare says.

"Yeah, sure." Thomas mumbles. "Better safe than sorry."

"It's not set in stone anyone has to leave, Tommy."His sister tries to be friendly because she sees he's distressed by the thought.

Cameron just takes it freely upon herself to scavenge through their food. Thomas plans to get at least a shower seem far away and unimportant at the idea of never seeing her again after tonight.

Thomas has taken the chair as his own since his sister leans on the fridge and stares at her phone with some sort of haze, not exactly ignoring, but separating herself clearly. And Kilorn leans on Cameron's other side, occasionally saying something to her and getting some snarky answer. It gets almost smoothly back and forth between them, nothing out of the usual. At least some things are not changing. Makes a nice day. Even though the thought of Cameron simply gone makes him anxious. More anxious than the others.

She's saved his life on too many occasions to count. She's always hauling his ass if the fire, listening and letting him ramble. Who's supposed to fight with him and call him an idiot if she ever leaves?

"Thanks for dropping by," Thomas says to Mare. "I know all of this isn't easy on you. Police still looking? And then there's that info dump and whatever you plan to do."  
"You know?"  
"Maven told me about it over lunch. Almost made me lose appetite. He also..he wants to apologize, I guess. To his brother. To you. That's why I help to sort stuff out. I'm really mad at him, but it's the best thing to come out of our fight, I guess. Breaking things with his mother."

Her eyes are hard in the light, pondering over some bad memory, not sure if she wants to trust that information. "Do you think he means it?"

"I am not Maven's conscience, even though he loves to try and give me that position." Thomas sighs. "And I don't know if he won't just change his mind. But I know I'd be gone if he lied. And I hope he apologizes to you. And takes back whatever he told people and police. I know you don't trust him. But you could trust me and my word."

"I do trust you, Thomas." She says. It's almost vulnerable and frail, a moment of honesty between them. Thomas is glad for it.

"Another thing," he retreats before she has to, nodding over to Cameron holding a plain plastic bag with a dark loaf of bread. "They dating now, or what?"

His sister decides to chime in. " Nanny says they are."

"Look at her face," Thomas shakes her head at the slight scowling mouth and unimpressed eyes, shrugging something off, there's some faint glimmer behind it. Like some sort of softness smoothing the normal scowl to a much more harmless version. " Aww, soo cute. She likes it."

"What did you say?" Cameron asks.

"Thomas thinks you're cute." Mare betrays him for she does not care for the pissed off response such a compliment will receive. He smiles.  
She ducks and a loaf of bread hits him lightly in the shoulder.

"He's not wrong," Warren agrees and the bread takes another swing.

"Leave my bread alone," Hannah complains. She puts her phone on the table and snatches the plastic bag out of Cameron's hands.

Thomas squints over at the screen. "Who's P.?" he asks.

"No one." The answer comes too late, scrambling and gripping the phone again quickly.  
"Told you, trying to get laid." Cameron snorts and takes the bread back.

* * *

 ** _[AN] Next update folks, next update_**.. ** _I am cooking the angst and drama. And_** daisey ** _, don't worry, I know it's a busy time and the story doesn't run off  
_**


	32. Can't take my eyes off of you

**_I can't let you have something really bad as a holiday gift. That'd be freaking mean. Here, have this_ _instead. Also I read the cutest one shot and the fluff made me want to add a chapter. Shoutout to Lightning-Witch and the best fluff (I don't know if it's on ffnet too or I_ **would link it)

 _Thomas_

Cameron isn't answering her phone.

He tries a million times.

It rings. Then there's a voice saying the phone number, mechanical.

He leaves messages all over.

Nothing about this comes unexpectedly. A goodbye, was it?

Farewells are always shit, however temporary they may be.

It's only temporary. Every single one will be back soon enough.

A family doesn't leave each other. A family shouldn't leave each other.

He has done that once to his own family and there's nothing that Thomas wants to regret more. If he had a time machine he'd slap his old self, year after a year until he finally has the sense to live decently and stop shitting on his mother and sisters.

Suddenly spending Christmas with his parents, sisters and Maven seems the best thing that can happen in the future. It'll at least mean distraction. He imagines Maven in their living room again. Last time he didn't know how to even look at Thomas little sister and she returned the favor, occasionally making an attempt because Thomas mother told her she had to be very, very nice.

He couldn't stop laughing his ass off in the way they shook hands. Like the other was some alien.

His father sure as hell isn't too happy about any of this.

That is if Maven actually ever will come around. There's still the thing with his own family. The evil witch queen hasn't bothered with Thomas anymore since the day someone tried to murder him. He is somehow still sure she knows everything.

She always does. That's what evil witch queens do, right. They watch and they wait for the right moment to act on their curses.

And then there's the mess with his brother. Which Thomas hasn't actually even seen for a while. But they aren't friends really, they never were. All he ever did was get on Cal's nerves because something was up with his brother. Or something was up with his brother and Thomas.

He legitimately has no clue how to micromanage the Christmas situation.

It was bad last year, it'll be worse this year.

In the attempt to stay calm, he just rummages through the fridge some time. He can't even decide what to eat. There are some things stuck under his arm. He steals his sister's yogurt in the end.

Luckily she is hypnotized by whatever is going on, typing away with some concentration.

Flirting with whoever, or maybe, just maybe, people don't ignore her as they do with him.

The thought that people don't ever trust him enough stings.

He's an adult, right? People ought to know he can handle some things. The only person that told him about the stuff going on was Maven. Maven, of all people. He appreciates the trust and honesty. The lack of it along his friends is concerning.

Like he's some sort of idiot.

He closes the fridge with a smash.

Some notes are written in his lanky writing sway back and forth. Magnets slide over the fridge a little under the force and the touch of his hand.

He takes a moment to stare at the note.

One phone number, titled 'pretty boy' with a heart.

One list of groceries. His eating habits seem somehow unhealthy looking at the stuff he wrote.

One says only 'HANNAH WE NEED STUFF'.

Hannah has written 'Buy stuff!' under it and Cameron has added ' LAZY ASS'.

Some are months old, stupid little doodles with sharks and talking vegetables.

And then there is one line in red. Half-forgotten beside one that shows a sad tomato.

"Oh fuck," he says, staring at the note on the fridge.

His sister stares up from her breakfast.

"Oh no, no no." Thomas makes.

"What is it?"

"Ahhhhh." is the only frustrated sound Thomas makes.

"What?"

"Ahhhhh." Thomas makes again since his brain feels frozen in the process.

There's a date, and there's a lot of hearts, and the little note 'Do something nice'.

The date has passed and it was a day like every else, half stuck between work and his friends, sorting out a mess.

He feels equal parts guilty and stupid.

Adult, right?

Not so much.

"I am an idiot." He tells his sister putting the food on the counter.

"Yeah." she agrees lovable. "But why today, Tommy?"

"Cause." He scratches his shoulder above the lanky spider his sister has left there in the summer. "I forgot my boyfriend's birthday. I am fucking shitty?"

"You forget birthdays all the time." Hannah answers unimpressed. "You forgot my birthday three times and you just remembered our mother because Dad leaves you messages."

"No, I thought I remembered everyone, like..I remembered Mare, even when she was pissed at me, I even remembered Maven's brother." Thomas stares at the note with dread. "Ahhhhh."

"Can you stop doing that?" Hannah asks, a little irritated but friendly enough.

Thomas takes a step back from the fridge as if it has turned into a bomb all of sudden.

"Did he send you even a text when yours turned up?"

Thomas blows out a stream of air. "We weren't back together when I had my birthday. It doesn't count."

"True, he just ignores you when he wants to and pisses everyone off otherwise. Or almost gets you killed."

"Hey hey, bread girl," he crosses his bare arms a moment in the attempt to stay calm. " I know everyone told you to be extra mean now that they aren't around, but don't do the Cameron and hit me and don't even try to pull the Farley-regret."

"As long as you don't do the Thomas-maneuver."

"I still don't even know what that means!" he sighs desperately.

She smiles her older sibling smile, with time comes patience, before she answers. "His Majesty didn't say anything?"

"No Maven didn't say anything," He rolls his eyes back so much his sister can probably see the white in it. "Else I wouldn't stand here screaming."

"People use their phones for this stuff, Thomas. "

"My phone broke and I didn't think about it. "

She huffs. "But you have a gift, right?"

"What is my life?" Thomas mutters unintelligible and shuffles back into his room. If only Cameron were here she would slap sense into him. If only anyone was left he could ask. What's an appropriate apology?

They are fixing mess after mess after mess and he talks about responsibility and consideration.

And now this.

It's depressing and mean. He doesn't even have a gift.

Maven always says he's the better one but really? Doesn't feel like it right now.

He rummages through his drawer.

There's two bags. The first one between his socks.

Inside is a the cold steel of a gun.

He almost forgot Farley gave it to him. He wants to throw it away but where to? You can't just put a gun in a dumpster. Except when you're stupid and shot someone with it. And he will not prance through this powder keg of a city illegally armed.

He hasn't shot anything besides the target practice with Farley. He doesn't want to. The gun disgusts him and creeps him out.

For now, he puts it back inside the bag unloaded and buries it behind his socks.

Instead he finds the other plastic bag. Inside are images, a torn shirt and a sketchbook with a maroon colored envelope.

It doesn't hurt to look at it anymore. He remembers the day it did. It isn't so far away in the past. One day he'll maybe laugh about it.

He remembers snapping pictures and sending them to Maven, night for night, leaving out some deliberately.

Strange, what can all happen in such a short time. All the pain and luck and love in the world. Just a short blink in existence.

At least there's a plan hatching in the back of his head when he looks at the book.

Maybe he has a present. Even if it's just some sentimental souvenir.

* * *

He tells his sister to make room the next day.

"Go on a date with mystery boy." He shrugs.

She turns some shade of pink but sticks out her chin.

"Or chill with Ada if she's still in town."

"I'll just hang around the library after work." She mutters.

"Nice. I'll be picking up Maven and then I need you gone." He pats her arm. She holds his hand a moment.

"You're cute sometimes, Tommy. Know that? He should be grateful he's got you."

"Not so sure." He shrugs at her again. " But I'll take cute, even from my sister, I am that desperate, so thank you."

* * *

He picks Maven up in the middle of another heavy snowfall.

Even though it's slowly turning darker already, grey clouds heavy, through the white snow everything gets reflected, turning the world brighter.

The park is mostly empty as they stroll along the path, away from the dirty road, staining the white.

It is not the park they used to meet up in the summer. This one is smaller and less clean.

But the dirt and trash gets covered by the white blanket and makes it look almost idyllic.

They don't talk much.

It's not bad. They talk so much, a break won't do bad, not if it's peaceful and consenting like this.

The ground crunches under their feet.

They're both in black, stark shadows against the white background.

Thomas hand stretches out and grabs some snow off one of the benches. Swiping most away, holding on to some.

Forming a little ball.

He sniffs. Lifts his arm and fires.

The snowball flies. A bit too long. A curve right over Maven. He aimed for something else, but it's alright too.

"A warning shot." Thomas says.

Maven turns his head around. Thomas hands already have scrambled together the next pile of snow to form a much bigger snowball.

"Thomas." There's a slight warning in his voice.

 _Careful, careful, are you sure you want to start it?_

Thomas takes a moment longer to aim. Maven watches him cautious. He probably hopes Thomas won't dare.

Thomas thinks about it.

Thomas dares.

This time the snow hits him right in the head.

For a staggering moment there's just the slightly disheveled hair, snow tangled in the dark strands and sliding over his ear.

Thomas looks at his barely adjusted face, almost flabbergasted. Snorts out a chuckle. Maven only huffs out a cloud of air, swiping the snow off.

Then he slowly turns around without a word.

"Mave?"

There's no answer.

Maven doesn't look back. He just walks off, long staggering steps.

Thomas just tries to keep up. He puts his hand on Maven's back.

Maven stops. Leans a bit forward, away from Thomas touch between to rustling bushes filled with heavy snow.

"I'm sorry," Thomas says because getting hit in the face wasn't the plan. "You ok?"

A second too late he notices his mistake in getting too close, when he sees Maven isn't looking all too sour or angry at all. And the next he knows a handful of snow gets shoved into his face by a gloved hand.

He makes a sound in ice cold shock. Then he can't stop himself from laughing. He laughs so hard it echoes over the vast space of the park, through the almost empty, white, eerie silence.

"You fucking-" he says, but the next second he ducks and staggers back, because there's more snow and another attack.

For a while it's almost a chase. Thomas ducks and laughs, occasionally trying to fire back. There's a snowball war and even though he started it, he will loose.

People passing give only a few short looks. Given the circumstances of this world, they may just for once don't care. Who knows. Thomas doesn't care.

 _For once, I don't want to._

After a while he can't keep up anymore, stumbling , hands on his knees.

"I surrender!" He yells, breathless. His face is burning , his fingers start to go numb.

"Good." There's some satisfaction in that.

"Lets go home?" Thomas smiles, still out of breath, heart pounding.

Hannah keeps her end of the bargain. She's nowhere to be found when they finally reach the apartment. Thomas shakes the snow off like some shaggy dog. He rips off his shoes and socks , watches Maven take off his coat.

"You wanna take one of your boiling showers?" Thomas offers. "I can get your stuff from my room."

"Your room is right there." He points one pale hand at the door in sight. " So I can just get it myself."

Thomas steps in the way too fast to cover it up.

"You can't go in there." Thomas bites his lip, trying hard to keep it together. " You'd flip your shit. It's really , really messy."

Maven stares inquisitive out of his blue eyes. Thomas shuffles his cold bare feet.

"Look," he tries to maneuver. " how about you go take a shower, I get your stuff and clean up a bit?"

Maven gives him one more look, almost suspicious. Because Thomas is the worst liar in the galaxy and Maven knows it all.

"I mean," Thomas hurries to say, hooking his thumb with as much practiced casualty as one can display through Maven's belt. 'I don't have to. I could help you get out of this clothes first."

He receives that little exasperated sigh that follows along the lines of his jokes so often. "Clean up your mess. I can handle it."

"Great." Thomas sniffs and lets the belt go.

Then he takes a breath.

Waits until he sees Maven disappear and slowly slips to his door.

He takes his time under the shower, the damp air sticks out from under the door when Thomas puts his clothes down. He peeks a little behind the shower curtain and gets shoved slightly.

"Just admiring the view." Thomas laughs because despite the things that happen in his life and around him, he wants to have something good.

And the view really isn't bad.

Then he retreats to the bedroom and changes into one of his too big old trusty sweaters.

Waits. Wiggling his toes.

Checks again if everything is at least half way alright.

His hands play with a lighter. A flickering flame he kills now and then, staring at the yellow, orange and blue, studying the intertwined colors.

He doesn't know where it comes from. But it's handy now.

Finally the shower gets turned off. Thomas waits patiently until his door eventually opens.

Maven's dark hair curls along his neck, just above the faded color of one of his more rundown shirts that he left with Thomas for sleeping or other mishaps.

Thomas only slightly lifts his hands as if he's doing some strange version of jazz hands. "Surprise, I guess!"

The candles cast a warm orange tint over the room and both of them.

"I knew you didn't need to clean up." Maven says, voice low. He stares at the room like he has never seen it. At the neatly made bed and sorted pillows. The candles that fill the edges of the small space. It's always been cleaner since he basically moved in, but Thomas has really tried making it look a little bit better, scrubbing the floor and cleaning his things, scattered everywhere.

"Sorry I forgot your birthday." Thomas says sitting in the pillow fort.

"We had a fight and there's clearly some important things going on." Maven answers almost lenient.

"I still feel shitty." Thomas shrugs. "I missed your birthday last year. Let's not repeat any of the past."

He pats on the mattress next to him. Maven slowly moves over and sits down.

"I didn't have a present." Thomas admits.

"You gave me a key." Maven reminds him. "It think that counts as a gift."

"Yeah, I still have something for you. No cake." He sounds sad about it. More than anything, birthday cake is one of the best things about birthdays after all. "But there's enough candles to blow out and make a wish, yeah? And this is yours now too."

The bag isn't as grey and torn as Thomas, the poor old one that used to be white. This one is still new, and the colors on it are still fresh.

Emotional baggage, stands on it. It's the same lanky writing, but with more ease. More concentration and effort put in it instead of a simple scribble. The face on the bag is different too.

"Cause, we both have the baggage, we should match."

"You're very literal sometimes." Maven notes but his hands hold the bag like it's a precious baby kitten and Thomas is flattered and happy.

"But wait there's more." He promises. "Open it."

Maven's hands pull out the old sketchbook , maroon colored envelope.

"I remember you sent me the pictures."

"Skipped pages. And added some things to it." Thomas smiles at him again.

"Thank you." Maven looks at the envelope but doesn't open the book. Instead he slips it inside the bag and looks over, just a moment. That look makes Thomas stomach melt.

"Happy Birthday. I hate us sometimes cause it hurts bad, but I love you. Kinda stuck with you, pretty boy. But you knew that."

"Say that again."

"That it's painful and hurts like shit?" Thomas offers leaning towards him. "I could call you names. Would that work?"

An arm slowly snakes around him the closer he leans until there's no room left. Then words die fast and though he does repeat what Maven wants to hear, it's only a whisper on skin between kisses and candles.


	33. Unloaded

**Deleted the last chapter because it didn't have relevance for the plot. It didn't happen. Sorry sorry,, didn't help wrapping it up. Sorry for the wait I have to re work the last chapters completely**.

* * *

 _Maven_

In the dark, there's only thoughts. They whirl distorted like the screeching sounds of nails scraping over chalkboard, They make him turn around in the cage of warm arms and long snorting breaths beside him.

They form shadows and forms along the ceiling as he blinks up. They are a grey enigma behind his lids when he closes them.

With thoughts, there's always the same wandering around. It's like a maze made of decisions and turns.

What ifs , memories.

Some are unreasonable. Some are blurry. There's guilt easily dispatched on all parties.

He has memorized every hurting, every hissing, every shouting match and all the little sharp words, bug bites and needle pricks.

 _You were my brother._

 _No , Maven, please._

 _What is wrong with you?_

It's hard to distinguish the voices sometimes, but when they are a blend of the accusations , they somehow seem clearer. A sum of puzzled buzzing anger, cold and hot, with shame and promises he didn't keep.

Lost, destroyed.

A million scenarios running through his head. And nothing productive ever comes out of the reruns. Except for one.

A lost lover returned, grateful for every little thing, still hurt and tired behind the small good things, but also still whispering he loves him. He didn't give up.

His mother likes to call Thomas persistent in the manner of a stain that won't wash away, the only relatively positive thing she has to offer aside from a disapproving glance or some small annoyance on their antics.

And he agrees. Even though the thoughts tell him it will never last because it is proven to be right. Even though they fight and even though he always deserved better.

His phone lights up beside the colourful pillows tumbled on the floor , beside a blanket he has tugged so tight around himself that when he would look down, he'd see a naked foot and twitching toes from Thomas.

It's early , or late, or both. As always. A few hours of uneasy sleep, still enough because he isn't alone and everything is more than he can hope for. His nights alone consist of sitting in his own dark bedroom, music blocking thoughts or his own voice sometimes mumbling words to himself if he can't say them to anyone.

He isn't **alone**.

The snoring has stopped. He turns his head. In the dark he can't make out distinct features but he knows what he would see. He knows every soft line , the little way Thomas mouth is open all while he's in some dream that's not making him twitch and toss and scream but just a blanket of images.

The phone lights up again, a flicker of white cold light.

There are few people willingly talking to him. Fewer at this time of day. Deducting isn't hard when one of them is sound asleep next to him after an evening of candlelight and naked skin, kisses and touches that seem to ache until they leave behind a warm, consuming satisfaction.

He remembers the way Thomas mouth moved, a ghost mark of teeth grazing his skin just above his shoulder, and the sounds of his breath mingled in between. And if the world could have stopped turning in that very second, he would have been content with it.

 **Mother:**

 **Answer your phone.**

The message just reads. A small demand he doesn't feel like answering yet. It's as always since he has snuck away to meet a homeless boy at a bench in the summer. Little acts of rebellion, mostly left uncommented. Or unpunished, chided and lectured still, earnings for disappointed looks and disapproval.

They had their share of discussion. No fights, of course. Not like you'd expect. They don't yell. They have their own way of biting each others nerves. His mother knows him too well. His father was the loud one.

Strange, how your shadowy thoughts have claws of the past.

His father is dead mere months. It seems longer.

There's no great epiphany lurking to be caught. He never knew what to do to please him and now that doesn't matter anymore.

The foul apple, the second child that's just somehow there.

The drunken laughter, yelling, tears. Living in some memory of a woman he had loved.

 _Your father doesn't know you. Your father doesn't love you_.

He stares inquisitive at the ceiling again. The phone doesn't stop buzzing just like his thoughts.

 **Mother:**

 **This is important.**

 **Mother:**

 **Maven. You had your fun. It's enough.**

They're good at avoiding each other sometimes, but they never lose track too much. And of course, she doesn't like to be ignored. He has inherited that trait and knows too well.

"Hey," says the little but real voice next to him. He looks drowsy and tangled, but seems too comfortable and pleased with the way they're huddled together.

Maven sits up, arms loosening around his body. One arm is still draped over his ribs, fingertips tingling on his skin. It's chilling in the small room. A shiver runs up his spine.

There's always something too soft about waking up together, especially after sex. Like it's not supposed to stay as friendly. Not as awkward as the first time was , barely able to look at each other, but still. Too soft and to sweet to stay for long. A thread of words hang in the air most times. Even when there is nothing but comfort.

 _Thanks._

 _I love you._

 _What happens now?_

 _Please don't leave._

 _Please don't hurt me again._

A lingering breath and one silent look, adjusting to the fact that for now, everything seems fine.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

An unintelligible mumble is the only answer before a yawn follows. His eyes are very dark and hard when they look at the phone in Maven's hand.

"Oh, ten bucks I know who's calling." Thomas whispers. Maven's finger wavers over the screen.

Something twitches around his lips. "I have to answer that."

The phone rings again.

Thomas makes a face. "I hate it when she does that. And then you're cold and unkissable the rest of the day."

Maven only scoffs softly but without much mockery. "I am cold and unkissable most of the time."

"I don't like this." Thomas mutters. The silent vibration is like an high pitched alarm bell.

As most times, Maven appreciates the sentiment. But they both know the phone simply won't stop ringing. And a part of them also expected every second for news of the malicious kind to fly in.

Good while the peace lasted, that little silence before the storm , that slow creeping moment that has to be expected. He feels he has spoiled that peace with the fighting. But that can't be helped anymore. A good thing this kind of rekindling has grown from wasn't that surprising change for once? Even though he knew it wouldn't last. One day lying low in a snowball fight and pretending nothing can burst that happy little bubble that isolates them most days.

With a quick stretch to relax his tense shoulder blades, he sits up, bare feet sliding over the cold ground.

"Hello Mrs Merandus!" Thomas says too loud beside Maven. When he's still coming closer Maven lets his hand rest on Thomas chest, holding the distance upright with low effort for a moment.

His mother makes a low sound, not a sigh, but clearly exasperated by the mere reminder of Thomas existence.

"Maven." It's a single word and it's pulling at him like hands on his collar, strangling him.

A million times, a million words, he knows what she will say before she does, a predictable measurement of disappointment and persuasion.

"Mother."

"Too busy wasting your time with lovely Thomas to check on the news already."

"I was asleep." It's an unimpressive lie everyone can see through.

She deems it unworthy of any answer. "Your petty little stunt with the data got live. It's making my morning very busy. "

He pushes one hand through his dark hair, combing a strand away neatly. " I guess there are some unpleasant questions asked?"

"I have a phone conference in ten and a meeting with our lawyers later. Better you came home."

 _A beautiful rotten collection of corruption._

"Is there an investigation coming?" A genuine curious question.

"We will have to wait and see. With everything said and done in the last months we can be very glad if that's not happening. Such a bother."

Maven gifts her a huff.

"I'm surprised no one has bothered to snuff out your whereabouts yet. You get a share of nasty accusations too, Maven. "

His mother sounds , despite the anger about all of this, just enraged about this more than anything. Dragging the private parts of family business into focus is an affront punishable by death. What happens in the boundaries of shared blood and names is not to be mentioned and laundered in public, except if you are the enemy, of course.

We protect us against them. It's us and them. Against the world if must be.

"No grateful thanks for supplying dirt," She adds.

People haven't forgotten the tower incident, the bombs, the death, the lies. And why would they? He didn't want recognition and kisses. All he ever wanted wasn't to be alone and he didn't do anything for them because he's particularly merciful.

The world is never merciful either. It takes and takes and everything gets swallowed if you don't take precautions.

"I didn't expect a very honorable mention." He choose to say careful.

"Good, because you don't get one. I have made enough damage control beforehand. But the least you can do is clean up , and come home, finally. Where you belong. This could go very bad. You didn't think it through, did you?"

 _ **Do the right thing**_.

That little advice seems even more bloated and useless than before. What did he think when he would hand over that list?

It makes little sense. She's right. He doesn't belong. He never did. Trying to make amends and talk it out seems like some bad fever dream. It's idealistic.

His hand is clasped around the phone tightly.

"I warned you." She says in the bad imitation of pity. "I've tried everything to make you stay safe. Come home and we can find a way to work with this mess."

He hates it.

It's surprising how much he has grown to hate it in the strange attempt to find out what kind of person he is or could be.

After all the years it seemed like he was just stitched together from different parts of his family.

Some contempt and loathing, confusing craving for attention and love, fear for disappointment and all the fear and anger.

He breathes , slow, one long emptying of his lungs , feeling his ribcage almost squeeze under the pressure of the pumping heartbeat.

He has hurdled so many of his own share of accusations at all the people he tried to care for. But never at her.

Would it be easy?

He hates it but he knows it. And knowing how well they compliment each other in their strange way is comforting. It's easier than this. It always was.

That was why he stopped calling Thomas. Why he hasn't moved out. Why he choose to go through with a very elaborate scheme and a net of lies to keep him tugged in at night. Petty revenge, Cameron Cole called it.

Worthy to get hit in the face by a girl he thought about lying awake and still sometimes does.

She offers and he takes. And then they scrape over whatever harm is coming to stay afloat and move on.

Thomas looks worried and quiet.

"I will take some time to catch up and call again." Maven answers.

* * *

They take a long breath in anticipation while dressing. Thomas tries to be his casual self, stealing his sweater and shuffling through the kitchen bare feet, refusing to give it back.

"It's made of-"

"Don't say it." Maven tries to stop him.

"Boyfriend material." He says in low satisfaction, pulling the sleeves over his hands. "Ah, that felt good. I'm just sad no one else got to hear it. Last time I met with the gang I had a show down with Fish Boy and Cal and I think people got pretty fed up with the puns fast. Cookie wanted to strangle us."

His brother's name leaves another knot in his throat.

Something crumbles in Thomas face. It's easy to see, even if he didn't know Thomas so well. He misses her.

Thomas stands next to the cackling old coffee machine and looks out into the grey skin, half his face illuminated by the first low lights in a winter day. It casts shadows over his bright eyes and makes him look drenched in pale silence.

Sometimes , Maven supposes, loneliness is contagious through isolation. Be it self inflicted or pressed by others to provide protection. Though one is worth more than the other.

"Keep the hoodie. You look better than me in it." He just says and wanders back into the bedroom to the drawer.

Most of the clothes are either old and faded, crumbled or clearly lent from his sister or other friends, judging by the size and colours. It's always sweater weather for Thomas.

Behind a ball of socks is a plastic bag. It hasn't the shape for soft fabric. Instead something hard and metallic presses against it.

It looks like a firearm.

He takes a look inside, pale fingers creeping along the edge careful.

A blank gun greets him.

One could suspect someone that gives speeches about truth pacts and deals would mention he has been sleeping in close proximity of a probably illegal acquired weapon.

We all have some things we'd rather not talk about.

The thought of Thomas with a gun is not to his liking at all.

"Thomas."

"Yeah, I know, I am dirty." Is the low answer between clinking mugs and cupboards opened and closed."But in all the good ways too, right?"

He randomly takes one of his other jackets and snaps the drawer shut, leaving the gun where it is. Then he moves back again to the noise, drawn right in and ready to brace himself for what's to come and all the things in between.

"Why do you have a gun?" Maven asks and crosses his arms.

"Oh." Is the only guilty answer from the sink. "Eh. I asked Farley to teach me to shoot but it freaked me out and I was too scared. I never used it."

"I'd have thought your sister would've yelled over it and everyone would know by now."

"She doesn't know , it's a crime and all." Thomas blows out a stream of air. "I wanted to get rid of it anyway."

"I could probably dispose it for you." He offers.

"Nah, you got enough to do. I can handle it. Somehow. Know some people dealing with stolen shit and weapons from street rat days. Was just hoping I could sit it out."

"Be careful." Running around with a gun seems like the worst idea ever. He can understand the notion of hiding it. Though even the knowledge it rests half hidden in that drawer leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Thomas just holds his mug and nods, glad there's no fight over it.

* * *

It's not hard to find out what is going on.

It's everywhere in the news and over the internet.

They get relatively comfortable on the chairs with their phones and two steaming hot mugs. Normally Thomas hates news with the feverish passion of a cat thrown in a bathtub, giving tail and hiding.

Now he glares at the videos and skips through it biting his lips and scratching his cheek.

 _"The leak contains a list of detailed information about high ranking politicians and the heads of companies involved in state affairs. Crimes and accusations made are ranking from tax evasion over blackmail and even murder. Investigations about the terrifying bombings and riots were supposedly altered or even completely shut down in favour to single accounts of eye witnesses-"_

 _"How much is true? There are names on the list everyone knows. Generations have build our country-"_

 _"Strong voices for the new bills and laws passed in just weeks away get criticism after the plans and recent expansion of a prison complex has been revealed."_

 _"A message added to some of the leaks contains horrifying images and accounts from torture-"_

Maven listens attentively. He's hunched over in the chair holding his own mug while his eyes fly over headlines.

He feels detached enough from reality to take in as much as possible.

Some was anticipated to come around sooner or later. He knew what he gave away, at least.

"I knew it was bad." Thomas mutters.

"Bad is an understatement." Maven just says continuing to read some unflattering article about himself, his mother and a description of his supposed mental state ending in question about his accounts about the tower incident and his following media presence slandering people.

Unsurprisingly there are a lot of scandals supposedly uncovered about any name on the list from his dead father up to other big names.

But the pressure against it is just as big. Claiming it all lies and washing all the dirty laundry about the delinquents of the last months.

It is a little surreal seeing it all spread out.

His mother's face is always prominent now it is everywhere.

"Oh please no." Thomas mutters. When he looks over his shoulder and sees the mugshots of his friends.

 _'Lies or truth, a question for the jurisdictions, hiding makes a criminal,' official spokesman_ -

"Thomas,on the bright side, you are famous now." Maven slides over his phone.

"You're kidding me right?" Thomas huffs and takes the phone, letting his own sink.

"They use your art. Most of these sites." They look at the face behind bars sprayed high and mighty on a wall , an image over headlines. Other small sketches of horror and heavy handed symbolism. And then there's an image he made of Mare. Clearly his style, though Maven has never seen it, with a high voltage sign in the background. "Not another mentioning about me at least for now."

"Fuck me." Thomas whispers and it sounds only shocked and surprised instead of a bad joke that could be easily made.

For a while they just sit next to each other while the sun rises above the drizzle of snow and mud that covers the streets and wraps everything in icy slippery sheen.

"I have to call my mother back."

"Yeah. Yeah probably. Can't avoid her now." Thomas agrees. He reaches over and one warm hand with rough fingertips gently and defeated holds onto his. "Just...Mave, if you go meet up, do me a favour alright? "

"Yes?" Maven asks and looks at their fingers entwined.

"Don't leave anyone hanging. You promised something. Remember? "

"I remember it all." He squeezes the fingers back. "Every little word."

 _Every bug bite, every needle prick. Every what if and every shadow_.


	34. Mother, dearest

_Maven_

It's five steps from the car to the door. Five steps through the biting cold punctuating the membrane of the world.

Five steps filled with looming faces. They are an emulgated crowd. For one second his eyes linger in search for one he may recognise. But none of them is stupid enough to dare and just appear at this place. Then the person in question could simply walk up to a police station or any figure of authority and gently ask to be arrested.  
A part of him wouldn't mind. But since he has tried to throw off the shackles and change something ...he is in the same restraints. And everyone knows that.

Crawling back is always an option, though. Knowing his place and acting accordingly.

Five steps can take an eternity.  
For a moment one face is particularly close to him, red bloodshot eyes eerily watching, dirty clothes and grey hair. Then it's vanished , melted into the messy crowd.

He turns his head.

Lets the questions, the yelling and the clicking light of a phone snapping a picture go by. Blinking against the sounds that penetrate his ears and make his hand in his pocket curl to a fist.

There's security around, arm outstretched when he maneuvers along the invisible lining straight to the destination without saying a word. There have been crowds in the past before.

Before his father died it was always standing in the back, in tall shadows and long evenings.

He could do the talking after that after there was only two of them left with his brother cast down.

Half the words were just plain cheap fodder and easy rhetoric. Mixed in a blender with some half-baked truths and a lot of fears and threats.

"You'll get an opportunity to ask the questions in a better environment, " He only answers to something behind him.

The shouting and shuffling leaves at the door and he moves through.

He isn't surprised to find the way occupied by a figure with blond hair sleek back on his head, arms crossed. Half unpleasant glare, mouth pressed together leering over some underling. It's clearly about the commotion outside.

"-or I swear I'll rip you apart." Samson Merandus threatens. Smooth. The warning is delivered to the other man.

It only takes a few more steps until he notices him. After all, Samson can be very attentive as long as he's sure it will be useful to him. He wonders if that is a policy that gets hammered into their heads as kids, so they don't ever forget.

"Cousin," is the polite greeting he receives, all the while his blue eyes take in his tousled hair and the dark, crumbled hoodie Maven wears under the open coat.

"A busy morning." Maven answers, stepping up to the elevator.

"Yes." Samson agrees. " I hope you didn't have any problems with that pest yelling outside?"

He pushes the button again before his hands find his pockets. Such a bad habit. He retains to those in times of stress and it is a constant act to try and conceal it. "Nothing big, luckily."

"They'll be gone soon," Samson promises. Unsurprisingly, Maven believes it. Those people are just some bother, some dirt, and they will be sorry soon enough they can't act accordingly. He's sure the promise was made to his mother already, and now he repeats himself to Maven in hopes of scoring some more approval. Nesting alongside them, all he wants is some more of the big prize.

And he ought to deserve it, _almost_. He has that cruel efficiency and brutality you need to go further, and he loves it and himself for it. Even though it can be very obvious and not exactly subtle what he tries to do.

"I guess my mother is still here?" Maven leans away, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.

"She was waiting for you."

He wants to say more, but he doesn't when Maven stays silent and as far away from him, eyes narrowed slightly. One indifferent hum and Samson just looks over.

So the elevator ride is silent.

He looks over and wonders if he was the one shoving a red boy in a lent suit down a set of stairs. No doubt it's violent enough, with some edge of underlying maliciousness that Samson wouldn't shy away from. An easy exercise, pushing someone unaware enough with an easy effort but high gain.

A few suspects on the list, reinforced by the things his mother said at their last confrontation.

Their eyes don't meet. They don't speak. For the best. He isn't sure he could take too much of Samson trying to squeeze words inside his head and he won't let him. It's enough his mother will do just that.

He breathes simply, counting the times his lungs let go of the air just to refill them.

The light leaves a stripe pattern of white light in the metal. He studies it, blinking shine against silver, clean and yet a little blurry. An idle reflection of doubts that have no place and accusations left unheard.

As clean and illuminated with artificial white light as always, nothing has changed in his absence in their...

No. Not home.

He steps inside, hands not willing to part from the coat pockets, but he does. Back straight, arms on his sides, one last muscle in his face twitching before he can bring it back under control.

The carpet and the ground are stainless and muffle his steps when he moves over to find his mother in the vast space of unused living room.

Her heels make her bigger, but she wouldn't need the height to differentiate herself from the people around her.

"Neither I nor my family has to answer any of these questions. We are all still grieving the devastating loss of a father and husband."

Ah, it feels good to be home, doesn't it? Still, the same old lies and deceit retracting reality into some make belief world you can handle and rule.

"Mother," he greets her, flanked by Samson.

She looks at him through the bright light, a black and blue form like an oversized bruise carved from the white background. He doesn't as much as blink.

If it wasn't for the physical resemblance they all share it'd be the fact they have pride and ice water flowing through their veins and poisonous gas escaping all their throats when one of them talks. It infects the world through and through. A talent. One needed to survive and strive for excellence.

"Finally," she says. For his sake, she doesn't accuse him and they don't tangle in any angry discourse. United front, at least when everyone is looking. His cousin earns a faint nod and she receives one back. "I was so worried."

He folds his hands together, face polite. "You know traffic in the morning is _murderous._ "

Her mouth smiles but her eyes are cold. That smile is reserved for the outside world, that salient, barbed smile, with lips barely tugged upwards. "It really is. Especially when there is a horde of journalists and protesters blocking the way."

 _And whose fault is that? Oh, yes, mine._

It feels strange. Not ruining things or breaking them. That is something he knows too well.

Give him something good and he will gladly break it into two. A talent of some sort.

A second the world stops spinning, takes a collective break and reforms again. Then it's over and flies by again while he tries to keep up with everything. Even though he is tired from not sleeping, never sleeping enough, lying in the dark and trying to take the offer of comfort. His brain works accommodating to the circumstances, disconnected circuits running hot and heavy to find a solution.

"Since I made my opinion clear," his mother says, voice cold." Samson you will surely be willing to escort the gentlemen out. I also am sure you can redirect any questions at him for the time being."

"Of course," Samson answers from behind his ear, and Maven doesn't need to turn around to know exactly who he looks at. "It would be my pleasure."

There's the last exchange of looks and Maven studies the dark suits and nervous glances exchanged before another pair of poor henchmen gets fed to the machinery this morning.

They move along quietly, and for a moment he just follows his own feet on the ground, casting a glance over. He always took after her, in appearance, manners. It's some sort of symbiotic mimicry, adapting to purge out the likeliness of loss or weakness.

There is little of his father or anything personal in her office. A picture of them both thrones on the desk, and an old image with his father, but that is turned half away and only for the people sitting on the other side of the desk.

"I told you that you made a grave mistake. Now you'll have to help me clean it up."

She's taken her spot behind the desk. He sits down right in front. They stare at each other as if they see each other truly for the first time in years.

"What if I don't want to?" It sounds childish and they know it both. He's prepared a million speeches and excuses but he doesn't use them.

"It won't be that hard if you don't try to wait it out." She leans her chin on her hand, manicured nails and silver jewelry. Waiting clearly for him to come to his senses and apologize.

 _Be a better person for once, can you do that, Maven?_

 _Be a little like your brother._

 _Be a bit like a normal person._

 **You let go and try to see the good.**

 **Make a list.**

 **Acknowledge the mistakes.**

 _Apologize._

 **Move out.**

 _Apologize._

 _Apologize._

 ** _Apologize._**

A blink and he forces his thoughts together, scrambling along to the wired rhythm of his body.

"Don't ruin your life or mine over this." She advises, barbed smile and blue eyes watching. "It was silly and selfish and stupid. And you can do better."

He knew she would say that. They run the same protocol of stifled laughs, advice, uncanny familiarity and chastising all the time. For a while, the praise, the unity and the chance to try to accept that they hated and wanted the same things was enough. No, not enough. But it was everything he had. Perhaps everything he really knew.

"What do you expect to happen?" He asks, out of curiosity, perhaps.

"I expect this scandal to go on for a while." An easy statement. "People questioning every move is bad as it is. Now they ask questions about your father's death. And about that side project. And I expect you to not sabotage us anymore. "

He makes a sound, not a laugh, not a sigh, just some crippled wordless mockery.

"It's what you taught me. You shouldn't be surprised."

"I also taught you biting the hand that feeds you is never a good idea."

 _Only bite it if you are sure to dismember it and annihilate resistance._

The next step is negotiation. And threats, if they feel like it.

"I suppose you want to stay with..." She wrinkles her nose slightly, as if she has to force herself to say his name. "Thomas. And we know I tried and tried a million times to talk the both of you out of it, just as I tried to tell you obsessing over that girl would do you no good."

 ** _Make it a cut, don't be a fool_**.

And perhaps she even was right. He held his tongue for the most part, little silent stares, messages, thoughts like vitriol and imprecations as sweet as a kiss, mixed with something else entirely, some distant memory not able to grip.

And all the blame, so easily dispatched on all the different parties.

His shoulders are so tense he can feel the muscles grind and twitch, keeping himself straight and up, face feeling grey and pale.

"We don't talk about her now." He cuts her off.

"For the best, probably." She admits.

The words are lead on his tongue, too heavy, as if it is somehow glued to the back of his throat. He'd rather suffocate on them then acknowledging that for once there is only truths.

He forces them out anyway.

"And I told you Thomas is a good person, a million times. But this isn't about him. This is about us. About what we do. How we are."

"Did lovely Thomas or that therapist of yours try and convince you of that?" Her lips are a pale pencil thin line. " Yes, I know about your visits."

He never doubted it.

"That is why I chose the last ones you had to attend. It's not worth it."

"You always glossed over it. Easy thing, ignoring the unpleasant truth. "He lets her remark fly by. Something skeletal in him is terrified, suddenly, by her disapproving glance. "But I don't want to anymore. I promised things and I will keep my word."

 _What is love for you? For me it is loyalty._

 ** _Promise, promise, please._**

"As if I had forced you to say one word disregarding anyone." She huffs a if it is the most incredulous thing she has had the witness to hear in this morning filled with brimming rumours. "I offered an alternative because I trusted you to do the right thing and you even did more than that."

There's the easy lie, denying the possibility.

There is a maybe, yes, I would, because it felt right at the moment.

"We are done." He simply states. "I need a shower."

He gets up. One long staggering step. It feels like fleeing and that is not a good sign.

She flinches, just the slightest bit, surprise, not fear.

It's a fine slice in her face, in the way her eyes move and her brows knit together.

Seeing her capable displaying emotions is always strange. Her representation is based on some edge of self-preservation and pride, something he knows too well as it shatters down and you try to stay composed. It ripples in waves through whatever conjured image he has of her, and for a moment she is human and nothing else.

It's half amusing and half very frightening on its own to notice it now. The gray in her tightly pulled back hair. The slight wrinkles around her eyes hidden under a layer of careful makeup. Dark circles he knows he owns as well, just as they share the same color.

The fading moment of familiarity, closeness or humanity is over fast.

"We are not done." She tries to sound only mildly annoyed.

He feels like a trapped animal when she stands up slowly, rounding the table and stepping in his way.

"I don't know what terrible things you must have people tell you, Maven. Or why you assume you have to suddenly change your mind and help people that despise you. Bad influence," Her voice is rational, it's suffocating caring in her own shivering way. It's the voice of his childhood and it doesn't allow any doubts. It purges them from his head. "I am sure we don't have to fight. You are still my only son."

He swallows hard on the lump in his throat, the reoccurring speechlessness. Glued to the back of his throat the tingle struggles still.

"Mother I won't change my mind." Not this time.

 _Watch us fall, mother dearest. Crashing through the corroding rooftop of our position._

"Hasty decisions never helped anyone. And please, never forget." Her hand stretches out. "People don't understand you." She whispers, hand smoothing over one side of his hair one time and retreating fast. "And I say that because I worry for you alone out there. Your father never understood you. Your brother and his side of the family hate you because you got to take what was always supposed to be yours. You are what you are. "

Her hand has moved away long but he feels cold. Cold fear, cold anger, cold sweat on his palm.

 ** _You are nothing._**

 _Was she ever motherly?_

 **That doesn't sound like something you'd say, just like you repeat it.**

"I am what you made me." He whispers to no one.

She doesn't turn around. Maybe he has just thought it. Not said it out loud.  
"Get your shower and we will discuss the details."

He's left with knots in his chest and the pondering angry beat in his temple.

For a moment he stares at the polished desk.

His hand takes the frame from it. Their pale likenesses stare back with cool animosity. He looks at his younger face and wonders a moment. Then he sets it down.

Stares at the other image.

Showing his father and his mother. His hands grip the simple black frame tight.

He can see what parts and which stitches of his personality come from whom.

His knuckles are white. His fingers trembling. So hard is his grip.

With a loud smash, the picture crashes against the wall.  
Glass splinters and cracks.

Breaking things. Burning things. It's easy.

A web of fine lines and broken pieces runs over his parents' faces. He leaves the destroyed image behind.

* * *

What to do, when you have the very strong need to just hiss and bite and claw your way out of your own misery and confusion but don't actually know how to accomplish that?

It's not a new feeling.

Losing your mind, hazy and foggy, confusing and strange, panicking, almost.

Call someone, maybe, talk. There is a valid warning to deliver, now that he's attempted to sewer some connections openly.

There are few people he could talk to without losing the slightest bit of composure he can maintain.

He would not expect his brother to actually answer. He's not even sure what exactly he would have said anyway. The longer he thinks about it the more visceral the repulsion becomes and whatever inclined to spark the idea dies.

He tries the better alternative.

 _Answer the phone_ _ **\- beep-**_ _answer the phone_ _ **\- beep-**_ _answer the phone..._

It goes on for a while. It sounds like a screeching cry for help.

Some form of maelstrom in the dim sterility of his dark bedroom.

"Bad timing Mave." Thomas sounds breathless. At least he answers.

"What happened?"

"Cops came to the apartment," Thomas says.

"Did you talk to them?"

"No, I fucking lost it when I saw the car and bolted. Didn't look like the talking kind of dudes, to be honest."

"Where are you now?" He inquires. _Are you hurt? Are you still there? Don't leave me alone_.

"I was at the crooked house, but it's empty." Thomas sighs. "Yellow tape and seal and all. Then I wanted to go to the Stilts but my Mom called me and said police showed up there too asking about my sister and you and me. And some newspaper dude harassed her asking if you're my boyfriend and if I like to draw. She was really stressed."

"Please tell me you didn't take -" Eyes darting around in the empty space of his room, he lowers his voice. "the gun."

A long pause follows. Maven can imagine a grimace.

"Thomas."

"Yeah I know, but what if they're searching the place and find it? It's good enough for locking me up now. I'm meeting my sister and we're going to some hiding spot , probably meeting up with some people. How did your chat with your Mom go?"

"Civilized. But complicated."

"Uh-uh. If she's anything then it's polite while gutting you, right? Don't let her convince you to be shit again."

"I can handle my family." A lie, but the reassuring kind.

"Good. I need to get going -" the strangled voice says. "I'll be fine. Don't worry ."

Maven breathes once and Thomas presses back a stifled chuckle through the phone.

"No, no I mean it. Don't worry about me now. This is your moment to actually face shit. Do it. And then..."

He does not finish the sentence.

And then we'll do what, exactly, Thomas? Maven doesn't ask.

 _We'll be somewhere together. We'll be fine._

Awful liar and good person that he is.

"Gotta move. Love you, pretty boy."

"I love you too." It feels like he vomits the words out. There's nothing tender about it.

The line clicks. The call ends. There's a discontinued sound that buries in his brain like a hot iron.


	35. Migraine

_Maven_

Feeling guilty is strange. It feels like someone steps on your chest and squeezes air outside your ribcage with the sole of a boot crushing your lungs.

He always hated it.

Normally it used to be relatively easy to soothe. Pull a switch and try to be rational about the wins and losses. Brutality doesn't matter when you are efficient. Just occupy yourself with something you can't have or with people that will never be yours truly. Because you will stay lonely anyway, and it is terrible because the need to have something that he will eventually break is so big.

Appearing like he is normal and functioning flawlessly. As if his insides runs along the cogs of a clockwork.

No one talks about the broken circuit and the dysfunctional disconnection that works its way through his head.

And that is fine. That is the best solution.

And if he can't rationalize his problems away and hide behind some fiery hostility, he just had to walk over to his mother and feel her appreciation like a hand on his shoulder, and the guilt or shame is erased.

But when you are all alone, the feelings still creep up.

It hasn't gotten easier since the first therapy session. Instead talking about feelings leaves some cracks for them to attack right at the vulnerable, soft spots.

There is a reason he sleeps too little and thinks too much even though he can't make sense of things.

Now there is only the hot water drowning the sounds, and his hands pushing over the watery film of drops on his brow. The water is scolding hot and pricks on his face.

It's almost too much, but not yet, that close second to pain that alarms the body to retreat.

Steam is filling the bathroom when he finally steps out the shower. He just moves lazily and too slow at first, feeling a little dizzy.

The news are circling for the next hour. People repeating themselves and eating each other's words trying to argue.

It's a coming and going, with his mother moving through the room and her voice silencing and her eyes burning. He watches her moving from the safe spaces along the rooms, one half hidden corner, sitting half turned away in the kitchen space a while.

She still finds him again. None of them can cope well with repudiation. That he is avoiding her is an insult to her demands.

"You did it," she says, harboring, prospering, all suffocating care, cold and with the tendency to sting. One strand of ashen blond hair has escaped the tight knot and falls along her sharp face. "Now there'll be an investigation. I hope you know what a hassle your actions are sometimes."

"I am devastated." He tells her cold, masking any kind of panicking heartbeat. Something irking pokes his stomach.

"Very funny." She is at least a little irritated. "But if I were you, I would take it a little more serious. We are still in this together."

"No, we are not," he forces himself to say." My name is not on the list of people you bribed and blackmailed."

That clearly doesn't faze her. Her brow is a smoothed line. "Oh, that list won't be the big problem."

And he knew that. "People will hold you accountable for everything." And then just because he can, he adds one more mocking remark. "Think about your reputation."

"You lied and accused people." She reminds him in return, frame hostile lurking too close to his chair. "And let's not forget how the towers escalated."

"You're the one that built up Corros, your name is under it. I just happen to know it existed." He shrugs and gets up. The chair creaks over the ground, shrieking. "Except morally, I am not in any position to be judged. And you know, mother? Everyone does that already."

For a friction in time, there is a dazed silence with her eyes following him move.

"You won't outlive this. And avoiding me won't help you."

You need me, is what she means.

It is useless to tell her he will simply say the truth for once when people ask. It's a judging, heavy truth, that much is sure. It's a truth made of fire and animosity.

His mother tilts her head when she sees him slipping into his coat and gripping his bag. "Where are you going?"

"None of your concern, mother." Is all he is able to say, even though it doesn't sound very defying or menacing on its own but very polite. "I'll be back shortly to answer any question someone may have concerning..." He makes a pause. "Everything, actually."

"We both know I'll not get arrested or punished as long as I can still tell them not to. "

"Let's wait and see, won't we?" He asks her. More of one of many slight matters of fact.

"At any rate this moment, there'll be arrests, after so many weeks of hiding." She attempts one more time. "I mentioned it, a few times, and it hasn't changed. Except for some new leads." Now she shrugs, and he feels something in his face twitch.

 _Yes, you mentioned it. You love to tell me who you threaten and the lengths people can go when you are on their tails,_ he could say.

She mentioned it and he remembers , enough, to just stop and move, and maybe, just maybe, tip people off one more time.

Not because he cares too much about most of them. But some of them take a lot of space in his thoughts, and whatever way, this needs to end. Because he hates feeling guilty.

"Maven." She demands. The difference in one little word and the way people say it, one name filled with sneering, and anger, and fear, with hurt and cold.

He feels like some small useless critter, with her hand ripping at the collar abruptly to make him tumble over the pavement.

He is very careful opening the door, stepping out quietly, not looking back. "Thank you for the warning."

"Maven." She repeats. And for the first time in forever she sounds panicking, short of breath. Following through the hallway and screeching in his ears unplesantly. "Maven! Come back. Stop it. That's just laughable."

 _Ignorance is bliss._

He focuses his eyes forwards even though he feels his back tensing and his shoulders slumping forward.

"Laughable!" She repeats. A crack runs along her voice.

And for only a moment he could almost pretend it doesn't have any power.

Even if that is a lie. And not even a good one at that.

The streets are so silent it is uncanny. Half molten puddles of snow and ice cake the world. They look polluted by the dirt, not white anymore but grey and corrupted.

The world is grey today, visibly.

The river is just as dirty.

He stares at the water, just a moment, dark brown and grey-blue smearing along the veins of the city, down under a bridge in the distance.

He doesn't even really feel the cold or the wind that rustles the skeletons of blank bushes and small trees along the street.

And for the second time this day he stares at the phone. It feels too heavy and too big in his hand.

Before he can turn around again he pushes the button. A single car chases by his left, howling engine and silvery shadow.

"Hello." He says, waging some small war with his own throat to get one single word out.

A long moment of silence follows, and he's sure both of them want to end the call right now.

"Maven." As if he is surprised about the civil greeting.

"I had a fight with my mother," He decides to be outright honest. That feels wrong, it's worse than lying or insulting or evading. "And your advice was useless. Everything is wrong now. Because you and Thomas always try to make me better."

"And you want me to do what?" His brother asks and his voice vibrates through some part of Maven's being and makes it hard and bristling under the pressure. The self-deprecating need to snap is big. "Apologize?"

"I-" Instead, he feels himself deflating. His voice sounds too weak in his ears. And isn't that terrifying on its own? Not even knowing what to say, stumbling over himself and his tongue?

 ** _Stop being stubborn and step up, Mave._**

 **You're not frightening, you are petty.**

 _It's a very responsible thing to do and try and step up._

His brother still waits for an answer.

He feels as if he has a migraine when the thoughts flicker through him again.

"I don't know." Is all that Maven says. " _I_ don't know anything anymore. But if you want to stay safe, you should know some things."


	36. In your blood

_Maven_

The bench is more dirty and broken than he remembers from his last visit.  
It withers away since one summer day where he couldn't stop himself from laughing at a boy trying to clean the leftovers of a seagull off his hoodie.

The trash can was kicked over and spilled trash over the ground the last time he was here. Now it's gone.

He doesn't immediately take the few steps down.

There isn't one, but two figures in the safe little bay from the wind and Maven doesn't like that at all.

It isn't Mare.

Ah, wouldn't that be quite the reunion?

Just like old times then. Or perhaps not. He wonders, wonders long, what he would do or say if she was to set foot in his direction willingly again. It would probably more feel like more cold-blooded anger and some blows dealt at each side until someone loses. He'd be outnumbered. He still is, now that he feels his nose wrinkle looking over to his brother and the brown-haired frame of his uncle.

Something vicious in him snaps. There is still the blow to deal with, and the ultimate rejection and anger unloading on him.

He flinches back, but it is so slight it's easy to conceal it. It happens before eyes are fixing on him.

Coming alone? He should have known better.

It was to expected, was it not? Never hope people hold their bargains. Make sure they do by all means or keep an eye out so you can move out and away if necessary.

There is a stale taste in the back of his mouth, and it turns into acid the longer he swallows and the closer he moves.

They look at each other, and turning around and leaving seems like a good idea.

It rips and claws at his insides again. Not yet panic or anger, but close enough to both to not be sure what he will say or do. He only waits until it peels away his skin and takes form.

His brother studies his face and for the slightest of seconds, there is something like worry in his eyes, studying his pale, thin face, the way he's holding himself rigid. But there is something biting too.

It's perhaps just imagination, some strange wishful thinking, and it sure is as laughable as his mother suggested he was.

He gives him a thin greeting.

"It has been quite a while between death." He can't look at his brothers face a second. Looking at Julian Jacos isn't the better alternative. His eyes do that thing you learn when you need to seem attentive but aren't really willing to look at something truly. Focusing on something small, seemingly looking at someone, but never really seeing them.

"Prison and jurisdictional issues." He still continues and tries to keep his face as blank as possible.

"And all the drama." He finishes, and he isn't sure no one hears the edge he tries to hide ineffectively.

"I'll wait by the car." Is the only answer followed by a begrudging look in his direction. He can only return the favor to Cal's uncle and puts his hands in his pocket, trying not to hunch again.

"I wasn't aware you'd bring company," He admits. _  
_

It is easy what he means by that: I was not aware he'd be out and moving around again, I'm sure he had a lot of dirty laundry to wade through, mother and I don't do half baked lies or terminations.

"I was sure you'd bring Thomas," Cal says.

He will be glad when Thomas doesn't shoot himself in the foot or makes a bad, bad decision today.  
Despite his good qualities, he sometimes lacks common sense.

"I don't need someone to watch me at all times." Is all he says, forcing his mouth to move and his face to remain still. " Even if it is-" He pauses for a moment, but there is no real word to describe the importance of Thomas in his life, and so he settles for something he'd like to hear. "my boyfriend. And he has his own problems to handle."

What a mild way to express concerns.

The absence of a body shielding him isn't the only difference.

They are both weary, but they are tired as well. Perhaps it is that toothless snarling that makes him realize that he hasn't seen his brother for months, and despite the repulsion he feels, there is something small trying to burrow out of his head, trying to find an image that is right, not some blurred mix out of helpless vicious envy and cold burning anger.

It's a relief, really. It is easier to deal with his brother as long as everyone is a bit angry. Anger is easy to understand at least. Despite the fact, they don't sit on an old table, they are still cut off and separated neatly.

They are still brothers, but that doesn't mean anything anymore.

It's in their blood and in their faces, that resemblance. But it may as well be faint as a slight single snowflake, dropping inside a stream and into the depths of the maelstrom.

 _Whatever your idea of love means, for me it is loyalty._ He thinks of Hannah's face a moment. Ponders about the words he still remembers well enough.

Loyal to what? Who'd be even willing to return the favor?

It's easier to use an exclusion process and know who's not.

Blood, traditions, that is brought up to be valued.

But there is no value between the two brothers now.

Maven is sure they would both prefer to be somewhere else, despite the lingering shadow of some past and closeness.

Tall shadows always stand between them like some invisible wall and it has not even changed.

Their father is dead. But he might as well stand right here.

He thinks of the way he smashed the image against the wall and the faint wish to destroy something, to keep his anger under lock and key, to smash something wrong or worthless, is big.

Instead, he just sits down, arms on his sides.

That is the most peaceful thing he can muster. Ignore himself and his head.

"But I used to come here with him when we met the first time." He whispers. "I used to leave messages for him because he didn't have a phone. It was always a good spot to clear my head. Just telling everyone it would be fine with all of us when nothing was really fine. And I could never do or say the right things. So I just pretended. That worked a while."

His brother does not sit down next to him, staring at him as if Maven is some sort of ghost. Maybe he is. Some leftover of a boy they both knew somehow, mixed in with an eldritch horror from some unstable psyche that has somehow transfigured itself into human form.

He doesn't even bother to look back, leaning forward and looking into the water. Murky depths and hard stones, sleek grey steel and white flurries of ice.

"People loved you," Cal says. Maven can put emphasis on the use of past tense and he smiles, one stretch of his lips, feeling odd and wrong. " And would have tried to help you if you had said a word."

He feels a numb sensation spreading through his fingers and moves them, fingers curling together. "But I didn't want your help. I didn't want to be near you at all." **  
**

**He still doesn't.**

This is more difficult than therapy or Thomas or even his own head made it out to be.

Their breath flies away in white little clouds, accompanying the smog and smoke that gathers. **  
**

"You fought with her. You never do that."

"And I shouldn't."

There is some sort of sound coming from his left, and strangely enough, he remembers his brother well enough to know the kind of face he makes in this exact second.

"No." Maven decides to clarify. "I should have been way smarter. But somehow, I thought...Maybe if I resist buckling and agreeing, maybe if I just keep some promises. Maybe..." The words get stuck in his head, and his tongue won't say them, instead, he feels trapped gain, and not safe despite the place of his choosing at all. "I meant what I said. I don't know anything anymore."

Some words may better stay left unsaid. No matter how truthful they try to be.

And then there is a mortified second of guilt and shame and anger, and he couldn't even apologize if it meant his life.

He makes another list in his head, listing off all the rights and wrongs, all the things that have happened.

 _I got people arrested. Murdered, even.  
_

 _I accused you, to put it lightly. I raised the bar high for hurting people, and I do it again, and again, and it takes other people to tell me what is right and wrong.  
_

 _And let us not even try to cross into the very unsafe territory of a girl we both fell for._

 ** _And now we have even less._**

"When Thomas asked me to help him out with his friend I didn't want to do it, at first. Just the same as I didn't want to go through with apologies and useless talking. I thought it was a waste of time. We know where we stand. Ask Mare." Only the tiniest edge, only a small word. At least he doesn't try to hit him again. She's done that job too. "But it was a backdoor too. I've tried before, but I always slip back and agree with my mother. So I took the chance and hoped for the best. But the best never happens _to me."_

And if it does, it goes away, slips through his fingers, and he cannot stop it, while he tries to hold he breaks it, burns it to the ground and protects the scorching remains with vain jealousy. _  
_

"I guess it's too late now to truly apologize. I wouldn't completely mean it anyway."

"At least that is the truth."

Now Maven looks up and meets Cal's eyes for the first time.

"Sometimes I try." He says with some tired irony. "Can we continue this touching reunion later and get to the point of this meeting?"

"It's not as easy to trust you to not simply walk back to Elara again." is the answer and Maven smiles without much joy.

After all that has happened and still does, he supposes he wouldn't trust himself either if he had made an offer.

But the personal words have cooked some part of the hardness, boiled it like leather.

They look at each other, in some grim silence. Nothing about this is comforting, or even friendly.

"Yes, I know. But I suppose you have to make a decision right now."

 _We keep what is ours, and we protect it, even if it is just some shattered remain of a hollow cusp, a relict of some form of relationship._

He agrees to follow through. But Maven declines to take a ride, not wanting to be in any kind of immediate proximity or even slight closeness to Cal's uncle.

His mother has left countless messages. Some others have popped in too, and all of them are loaded with negativity.

He puts the cacophony of the blame on the voicemail on his headphones and listens to his mother's voice.

You'll go back, you always do.

It's in your blood.

It is a wild ride from bargaining, begging, threatening and just slowly numbing to some sort of cold anger.

Thomas hasn't answered in any form, and that isn't reassuring his nerves at all.

They are dwindling, hot wire coiling under his skin, and the headache is still there.

What _is_ in his blood?

He is cracks and stitches, lies and fire, anger and cold. But what does that make him? What are his ambitions in life, truly? He made a list. But that list means nothing. Words easily to be erased.

To be happy.

That seems impossible.


	37. Waiting is all I do

_Cameron_

The crooked house is left empty.

Her steps are loud. The last living and breathing being in the room. Ada's side is already neatly abandoned. There is not much to pack anyway. One bag and stuffed with clothes and a few personal things. A raggedy poster on the wall is the last thing getting rolled together and squeezed in the backpack before she pulls the zipper up and shoulders it.

Some memories have piled up for this place. The way she liked to listen to the sounds of the house. Like the inhabitants were ants crawling through their tunnels and nests.

Good enough while it lasted, she supposes.

Nothing to do but move on. Except if you want to be locked up.

She listens to the pipes creaking one more moment.

Steps behind her inform her she isn't, in fact, the last living being in the house.

He's just leaning somewhere behind her, waiting, blond hair a little tousled.

"Are you ready?" Kilorn asks.

"Sure." She just says.

They walk in silence. She thought she'd feel awkward or strange after she just wanted to prove the world liking someone enough to maybe date them isn't rocket science. In truth, really nothing much has changed anyway. Not like they'd have time to really hang out. They just..kind of continue to sometimes be in each others space. No invading, just being there. No soppy flirting even, just some compliments or jokes, and her answer varies from hitting him with something over gruelly accepting it. Not too bad nothing has changed.

Cameron unnoticeably slumps a bit together while she wades through all the things on the screen of her phone, one hand in her pocket, one holding it in her palm.

His eyes stumble over the words when he follows her eyes. She can see he really tries, but it's still not as easy to read if you couldn't do it all your life. Not that he wasn't able to get through on his own pretending.

"Same old shit. Nothing new out yet."

"Ought to change soon."

She isn't in the mood for another discussion, goodbye, for anything involving too many feelings. So she just struts beside Kilorn with her backpack and dreads the traffic and too many people squeezed in the streets.

Being stuck somewhere with Diana Farley pacing is bad when she argues now and then, be it with Shade Barrow or his sister.

They all know why everyone is arguing. Funny, it is one of the reasons they haven't left already. Packing all the bags, Cameron was pretty sure they would just all one after another bolt from the city. But leaving isn't as easy as she remembers, both from an emotional and a practical view. That has been proven and she has seen that.

Cameron has also seen the rudimentary masses of exhausted indignation and outrage along the inner parts. Barricades blocking roads and putting trains and traffic to a slow-paced goo.

She can feel the tickling wish to just stand up and leave too.  
But where to?

The crooked house, undoubtedly, is no more. If she was to go there she'd be either snatched or just stand in the cold and wonder why she ever thought it could be a temporary home and why she felt safe enough to lie around and listen to its breath.

Thomas apartment may be a tad bit safer only because it is not in the entirely bad part of town, but even if she got there, she couldn't just knock on his door, even though she misses him.

She really does. She misses him in a different way than the nagging fear and the loss that holds over and tries to defeat her when it comes to her brother.

With nowhere to go and nowhere to be, what's there to do and wait? Watching people fight and argue, arrive and leave in the interleaved rooms of the flat and the small staircase that leads to the basement she has been sleeping in for two days now.

„I will sum this up, just so my old brain has something to do while you wait," Nanny offers. Her voice sounds very matter of fact, with a little bit of tiredness because they have been moving so much these past days.

Cameron crosses her arms on her broken chair in the corner.

 _Make it a holiday present,_ she thinks, _wrap it all up for me Nanny._

She wouldn't admit she is glad for any distraction at this point.

„Maven Calore gave your artist friend Thomas a flash drive filled with compromising data, " Nanny starts easy, with things they both know. Cameron lets her for now. She can't just run and just punch the problem of the truth away, so she has to stick with it. "Thomas gave it straight to you because it was already meant for you. And there was more than enough about Morrey."

Not that it would help her now. Jumping from one burning hole to another all the time.

Cameron smoothes one strand of hair that has escaped her braid behind her ear. "Yes."

"He didn't look at it once?" Nanny asks as if that notion is somehow strangely alien to her.

"No," Cameron clarifies. "He isn't that type of person. He honest in what he does. Probably thought I would know better what to do with it anyway or didn't want to have it for too long."

"But not one look?"

For a moment Nanny's eyes just lock tightly onto Diana Farley's sharp-edged form held captive in grey and white light from the window, then back to Cameron.

They both know Nanny would have probably made a whole copy of whatever if she had been given an opportunity like Thomas. You need to be an only minimal sneak or cautious enough for that.

"No." Cameron only says and throws a look over to the window where Farley has stopped. She only watches her tense back upright a moment before Nanny's questioning continues and distracts her again.

"And he left a backdoor in because a part of him wanted to get rid of his mother ?"

"I don't know how his brain works."

"People in love are strange to you, isn't that so, Cameron?" Her voice is perhaps trying to light up the mood. She doesn't light up the mood at all.

 _Oh not that again, Nanny_ , Cameron just thinks and huffs.

"I ain't talking about that with you." Cameron declines any kind of question."It was about what happened to have us get stuck here waiting."

"You won't escape it forever, I can just ask Kilorn," Nanny promises and is almost smug, old cat licking her paws and warming bones she always is when she is relaxed.

And if looks could kill, Cameron is sure her eyes would make Nanny's brain explode and fry sizzling now. Nanny isn't fazed by her remarks, fits, or insults anymore. Living with someone for so long and occasionally comforting them or at least caring has made her immune. And it is the age too, the patience or experience. Cameron realizes she knows nothing much about Nanny again, not even about her family or past.

Maybe it doesn't matter because they know the past can hurt you if you unwrap it without enough preparation. Or maybe they just always have other things to discuss.

"Anyway, You gave the flash drive to Farley and Mare."

"Did I have another choice?" Cameron asks.

Nanny makes a vague gesture that can be read as agreement or a simple „not sure what to say to that".

„Not that again, Cameron." Is all that flies over across the room from Farley.

„No fuck I didn't." Cameron makes it clear, sullen face. "I just want to have a normal life with my brother. But it means silver assholes get their asses lit in fire so perhaps that is an okay motivation."

„We're all in this together." Nanny just says. "The whole bunch of criminals."

"That's really reassuring." Cameron remarks. "Barrow bitch slapped Calore-Thomas boyfriend or whatever they are most days, not the other one, and he told me and the bread girl about the importance of the prison plans. So what was I supposed to do but stick around and relay the information? I need somewhere to stay and some help bailing Morrey out, don't I?"

Nanny and Farley are not impressed at all. Can read her to a T and look past the bad excuses.

"It's not because you like some of the people. Especially Thomas or Kilorn. Or Nanny." Farley just offers without as much as blinking against Camerons stink eye.

"I lived with Nanny in the last months."

"Was it that bad?" Nanny asks.

Cameron thinks about her last look at the crooked house again. "No. I don't think so."

"You're a badger, but I agree. It wasn't that bad."

For a moment they do not talk at all. Some bone in Nanny's neck makes a clicking sound when she moves it to the side.

"And I haven't talked to Thomas for a while. And neither have you. You were the one telling me to keep it down even though you know how bad he takes radio silence." Cameron crosses her arms even tighter.

„He is better out of it so he stays safe." Was the justification before and it is repeated now again.

Safe. Warm at home snuggling in some blanket and eating trashy food. She can almost see it, the messy hair, the rolled up sleeves, and too many pillows, with pencils, paper, and some terrifying sweet soft drink in a too big but almost empty bottle scattered around him.

"You think he can't handle stuff and every time you shut him out you only hurt him."

"Are we talking about you or are we still talking about Thomas? Because it seems you are just angry for being here." Farley presses her lips together and without much edge, just the minimal appearing derided. stuck up here. Both don't want to be. "After all, I should be angry at you for taking whatever bait Maven Calore could have put in your hands through Thomas."

"Pff." Is Camerons only answer.

"Lucky it wasn't just that, isn't that so?" Nanny tries to defuse the situation.

"I am not entirely convinced of his selflessness," Farley answers from her spot at the window and moves again, out and away now. "Feel free to ask him sometimes."

Her boots make some small noise on the dirty old carpet and concrete ground before she has disappeared out of sight.

Left with only Nanny and the cold, Cameron stares at her phone for a while. Even though no one has answered her last messages and she has a long list of missed calls from one number titled 'Idiot'. Something eats through her stomach.

"Do you think them talking it out will change anything?"

Cameron shrugs again.

"This is a dog shit of news, politics, police raids and barricades." She summarizes. "But Thomas told Barrow and Farley it is different this time and if the toad stays and renounces. Gets rid all his lies, who knows. Maybe half of them won't be a bunch of criminals anymore if he keeps his word." The thought about who loves who and who is with who and who used to be with whom whirls around. Cameron touches her tightly braided hair, checks it is still that. Neatly and tight braided. Something small at least should just stay in place.

"Let's wait then," Nanny offers. "And see what happens."

A bold statement, wait what happens when you mix in two brothers stuck in some fight and dirty laundry, mixed with an unhinged bit of scandal and politics, crowned with old loves and new ones.

"Nanny, did you ever wonder why there's this weird love tetrahedral?"

Nanny draws her eyebrows together.

"Is that what you call it?"

"I usually refer to it as the drama express," Cameron shrugs. "But it sure as hell is not a triangle. There's too much going on for that."

Nanny laughs at that. "Maybe it's your age, did you ever think about that?"

* * *

 _ **[Hey, I am sorry if this feels like a filler, I just kind of wanted to address some things from**_ Camerons _ **perspective. But I promise**_ next _ **chapters will be the final conclusion to all the arcs and I work really hard to get it all right :((]**_


	38. My sister says the saddest things

_Thomas_

His first mistake is to take the gun.

His second is to actually load it.

It's in his jacket.

He could get shot easily.

It feels stupid that he did it.

But it's still safe as long as he isn't trigger happy, right?

Thomas swallows. After being faced with the uncomfortable truth of suddenly being relevant to the world and his mother panicking, he wasn't sure how to proceed.

And then the police car pulled over and he now has, for all time, lost his head.

He tries to conceal it in front of his sister now that they basically jog through the blocks of Apartments . They cross a supermarket that is closed shut and tight with metal bars.

They are both tense and sour. Even though it is relatively sunny it is cold still.

To keep himself occupied he decides to talk about anything really.

"What happened with that guy you texted all the time?"

"Nothing happened. You should know how things go sometimes." She walks faster, and he has to leap and hurry to catch up with her. "You meet someone, you like them when they don't like you back the same, and then you move on after you realize you wouldn't work either way."

"That is kinda sad," Thomas says."I mean, I get crushing on someone that doesn't like you back. But I thought you were happy and glory in love."

"I told you it wasn't anything." There is something fragile in the way she holds to her scarf. Her fingertips are red in the cold.

His sister looks over, hair curling and flowing in the wind under her hat and scarf in strands. "It's fine. We aren't fighting. We are nothing, really. And that is just how life goes. We move on. I don't blame him."

"Yeah, don't tell me about it, we both know I am stuck with one guy breaking my heart. Bad at being serious with someone else."

"I think Maven is happy you are bad at it."

He laughs even though he doesn't feel like it.

"It would have been a cliché anyway." Hannah mutters. " Cameron told me to just go for it, but I read to much into the whole thing. Maybe we really make relationships rocket science sometimes."

"I miss her." Thomas says.

"I know." His sister answers. "And I am sorry you didn't get to spend Christmas at home, with Mom and Ida and your boyfriend."

He stops a moment. Blinks. And looks at her.

"And you."

She doesn't smile.

"And Dad," She adds then.

"Ugh, I am pretty happy I don't have to do that one."

They are silent for a while. He takes a long breath and wishes they were at home and could just sit huddled together. Living with her is relaxing most days and he was never more glad than now he has a relatively stable relationship to her.

"I made a gift for him, you know, even though he would have hated it."

Family issues are not a strong suit of theirs to discuss. It feels as bad as talking about nothing at all. Hannah reminds him too much of their mother while they talk now, voice calm in the wind.

"That's just how he is with you. He has immensely high expectations on the people he loves, Thomas, and he thinks you should be safe and sound and happy."

Thomas hugs himself careful, arms just slingling around his narrow figure under layers of clothes and feels the gun in his pocket.  
"His happy was not my happy."

"I know." His sister remembers the summer weeks he fled and the winter time he returned well enough. "What did you get for Maven? You got him a present after you forgot his birthday, right?"

"I bought the ugliest sweater of all time just so he had to wear it at least a moment. It's so ugly even I wouldn't want it." Thomas laughs again, and this time it is almost genuine because the mental image is too golden.  
"It has this sloth with a red hat and a mistletoe on it, and the sloth basically looks like it is begging to be killed."

This time Hannah at least attempts to smile. "Is that some passive aggressive payback?"

"Nah, I just tell him I hate him sometimes and that I hope he will keep working or else I will leave his ass, then we are fine. Honesty is important and all, right? I just thought..." He hugs himself more tightly. "I thought it would be cute. Something people in a normal relationship do. Oh, and I made this sketch for Cameron, because I owe her a tattoo when we see us again."

"Thomas." She squints her eyes together a moment, and he isn't sure if it is the wind toying strands of her hair around or maybe some form of feeling she surpresses.

"What?" He asks curiously.

"Maven and Cameron and everyone else can be really glad you care for them."

He blows out a stream of air.

"It's not worth so much right now, is it?"

"Don't worry. You'll get through it, I'll make sure of it." It's a promise and he isn't sure he likes the way it is sounding so absolute.

They don't make it too far. There's a massive police car around the station and further down people in a long crammed up line.

"Oh fuck," Thomas whispers. He doesn't say a word about the gun. He cannot bring himself to. She looks worried enough. He should. He needs to. "We ain't never gonna make it through all the city, do we?"

Hannah sees he is uncomfortable. She thinks about it.

"I mean, not alone."

Thomas bites his lip because he knows she is right.

"I can call Maven. Or we try and get Cal to-"

"No, I don't think that's going to work right now. I think they are really busy with each other."

He is startled, a little. "Han, what do you know that I don't?"

"A lot." It isn't lovely older sibling mock but something else. "But to sum it up I think that your boyfriend and his brother have gone trying to have a cease fire and use the dirty laundry to stab your favorite mother in law in the back."

He would be happy to know they talk, if it wasn't coupled with this dreaded sense of urgency and foremost something as big. Something that swallows everything since the day Maven called Thomas to say he made a mistake.

He'd be happy to know Elara gets her share. But he doesn't really believe it is that easy.

"Alright, I didn't want to do this," She sighs. "but it is freezing cold and we can't use the tunnels down at the station Farley told me about. So just promise to keep your mouth shut if he agrees to help me."

"You lost me." Thomas scratches his nose. "But alright. Whatever."

The phone call is short.

He waits in a little distance from the street cloaked in irritated warm sun light.

When she moves around the corner, he follows his sister after a few moments.

At first he sees the car. Some shiny thing not like the old trusty van.

There's a unfamiliar grey haired frame close by, clearly talking,a hand slightly moving.

His sister is her usual business like self, hands clasped in front. He can almost imagine her saying something in some sort of polite nothingness. Excuse the inconvenience, it won't happen again.

 _I'd let someone else do it and dispose of the bodies_ , he remembers Maven's glare when they were at that party. _Like Evangeline's brother_.

Sure he was moody and jealous that moment. But occasionally you can take a statement of Maven al most without a grain of salt.

The hell are they on about? He wonders. Nothing about this is reassuring.

He hopes it's nothing mean spirited. Those people all have the same snobby outlook, as far as he is convinced after meeting them and getting trashed.

And then she crumbles. Pressing the heel of her hand against her brow, as if it's too much to take and she has a headache.

There's something in the way he looks down to her that makes his spider senses tingle. He can't really pin it down.

"Oh, " is all Thomas processes to sputter and earns one sharp look. "No fucking way. What are the chances. You are mystery boy."

In retrospect it's pretty easy to see the how and why.  
Makes sense he'd be around her work occasionally if his father runs the mill. Still not so reassuring.

"I owe you one,"Hannah says when they drive and Thomas only can think about the weight of the gun.

„You owed me one before when they didn't fire you." Is all Samos answers from the driver's seat and Thomas watches them both precariously remembering the fresh talk about her life very well.

„Yeah well, my brother is basically hunted by people because of the ruckus, so it isn't about me yelling at your hair."

Strange to hear that but true enough. He never had it as bad as say Mare Barrow, because no one just told the world and jurisdiction lies and accusations. Still too hot. And what is that about his hair and yelling?

„I am actually glad it isn't," He retorts and his hands hold on the steering wheel tightly.

„Me too," she mutters. „Me too."

The situation gets more tense when they actually get out in the worst kind of neighborhood and Thomas watches with some uneasy feeling.

Their unwilling driver and his sister have a short snapped discussion.

"There's a basement we can stay." She throws over to him. "No one should be around. A moment, Tommy."

He doesn't have a moment. Because sideways up to him in the alley there are two very familiar frames.

At first he sees Mare. Then her brother.

And he is glad to see them. But it means they are still around and they haven't told him. Again. After the effort of saying goodbye one could assume they would have told him.

And somehow, that makes him angry through a haze of disappointment.

Samos lurks in the distance and Hannah approaches and everyone is actually witnessing just about his most selfish and stupid meltdown.

"What are you doing here?" Mare asks.

"Oh no," Shade answers when he sees Hannah and her unwilling accomplice.

"Oh yes." Thomas says in spite. "Good to see you."

Every goodbye and every belittling and every push just comes out. He is useless and they knew it. He should be glad they liked him enough to even be friends anyway, should he not?

„You could have called me!" It's pale anger and grey fear. He feels sad and tired and very helpless. „You never do! You treat me like I am a child, all of you."

„We don't treat you like a child." Mare disagrees sharply.

Shade shakes his head. „This isn't the time or place and you know it Thomas."

A siren pinches through the echoes in the alley.

„Did you call the cops on me?" Hannah whispers. „Really,Ptolemus?"

Thomas forgot he was still here. And he remembers something else.

The gun is heavy in his pocket. He slowly takes it out.

„I wouldn't do that if I were you,"Samos warns him.

One of the Barrows curses behind him.

"I asked Diana to teach me how to shoot even though I hate weapons. That's how far I was just to be anything but useless. For you that isn't a big deal. For me it fucking is."

„What the-„ Hannah whispers. „Who gave you a gun? How long do you..?"

Thomas stares at the cautious faces as if he would just shoot them.

„Give it to me." Is all his sister demands, body still facing Samos.

He does what he is told. The weapon is cold and heavy. She holds it calm.

„Hannah," is the only word Samos says and it's a mixture of both some sort of anger and clear cautious respect, because she still holds the gun even though she doesn't point it at him.

 _We are_ nothing , _really._ He remembers her words. He isn't so sure she is perfectly over it.

For a moment they just stare at each other. If Thomas wasn't angry and lost himself with something hot burning through his stomach, he'd be more worried.

„Go back to your sister and fiancée and leave or I swear I will shoot you before anyone is here."

Now that _is_ worrying. Thomas stares back at Mare Barrow and her brother. Their eyes meet over the small distance, some sort of silent dialogue that seems to hold on an eternity. But Mare clearly holds on longer to the look while Thomas' eyes scramble away.

„Hannah,"Shade now says. „It's-„

A siren in the distance. Thomas isn't sure what Shade wants to say.

And then for a blurry vision of a moment, when Thomas blinks, Samos shoots forward and grabs Hannah's arm.

A struggle, a little crunching sound of boots and scraping feet.

The world slows down with the shattering sound of glass just like that. Painfully fast actions are seemingly painfully slow.

He can't make a sound.

The next sound is a single breath from his right, to where the shattering sound came from.

He sees Mare kneeling and she does not move. For a second his heart stops thinking it might be her blood. But when he looks again he sees there's only the slightest stain on her jacket.

Stares at her hands. They have the richest color of red. The next moment, so slow, but too fast to react, those redhands sink. They touch a back, one he knows

She's unharmed.

Instead, Thomas stares at the lifeless body of Shade Barrow.

Something about the image of his body not moving will never leave Thomas alone. He didn't even make a sound. He didn't even see him fall. Or move at all.

Shade appears and disappears all the time from his sight or life but he always returns too. It isn't anything new.

Thomas stares.

Thomas chokes.

In the midst of the chaos, his sister and Mare only one to move. He's glad Cameron and Farley aren't here. She makes one step staggering understanding and confusion away from her brother just as Thomas can barely make one scrambling towards him.

"No, no, don't," Hannah begs and pushes all her weight against Mare's body. "You need to go. I will- "

The fight for the weapon has retreated to something else. The worst is, he should join in and hold her or look where Samos is going to be.

But he has just thrown the weapon away. Retreating closer to where the sirens have come to.

He should look for a pulse. He should move over and stop the little bleeding that is apparently occurring.

He just exists and drifts by . He can't help it. He is out of controlling any body functionality.

Hannah is the one that picks the gun up in the end, barrel down. She doesn't even shake. Her fingers hold the gun tightly.

Thomas just stares at her and tries to progress what happens.

"Tommy, you need to leave too."

Thomas stares at the corpse of Shade Barrow because that is what it is, right? A corpse, a corpse. He is dead.

He can't leave. He doesn't want to.

He still somehow takes on dirty smeared hand of Mare Barrow. And even though they don't look at each other and he isn't sure she sees him, he brings her feet to move.

"If you get caught, don't resist arrest they can turn that against you," Hannah says. She swipes over the hilt of it with her sleeve again. Then she puts it on the ground, not one feet away from the strangely bizarre looking body of someone he used to know so well. "Don't sign any far fetched confessions and deals to get out. Someone will help you. You didn't do anything. Just tell them I shot."

They stumble away. He drags Mare. He doesn't know how or why.

Not for very long, though, before he can't do it anymore.

Tell them I shot shot shot- It won't leave him alone. He sees in his friends face she can't either.

Even less. And it's his fault. All his fault.

The sirens have stopped in close range.

"I need to go back," she insists.

"No," he blinks through a ray of sunlight on their faces. A mockingly bright day for someone to get shot in an alley. "No, it was my fault. I go. Lemme take a look , just a look."

It doesn't stay a look. Because he is red. He lurks around an alarmed crimescene.

The police was wanting him anyhow. They snatch him off for questions and he doesn't get to leave after.

Again, he has abandoned a friend. Again. He hopes she is safe when he gets the usual procedure of getting stripped off his belongings and stuffed in a cell.

He stays the night.

Merry Christmas.

The sun shines through a high window when he takes one step into the hallway. Only a few people are present. Some waiting on the chairs, a few cops and people in suits that may as well be lawyers or attorneys or whatever.

She sticks out because even in his numbness she is familiar. She wears a long coat and her dark hair open. No hat, no gloves.

Her gray eyes follow him move slow, dragging himself along the wall of chairs and figures.

"Hello Thomas," She says. Calm. "Did you get your things handed back yet?"

"Iris." He didn't even think much about her since they met the last time. One or two small friendly texts but that was it.

For a moment he just stares at her. The next he is putting his arms around her, hugging her tightly. It is no relief. It isn't anything. He doesn't cry or laugh. His heart beats a few times, he breathes. He hugs her to know she is here and he is here in this fucked up hallway full of people that don't give a shit about him. For a second he believes she is thrown off by the hastiness of his moves or the very unkind rough way he holds onto her. But she doesn't say anything about it, and instead he can feel one of her hands smoothing over his back a second before she steps out of his touch and out of reach.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to pick you up."

Of course? Nothing much about it makes sense. Nothing makes sense anymore either way though so maybe it is not unnatural.

"Where is Maven?"

"Waiting for you."

"He is not in hospital or in jail or anything?"

"No," Iris promises. "Do you want to come with me? Did you get your things handed back?"

"Yes." He feels mechanical and wrong."Let's go."

Without much questions he just gets in a cab with her. The nice kind. Not smelly or sticky seats. It even smells alright. A car , he has learned from the van, can get so trashy and smell of all kinds of things. But the van is just a faint souvenir of a memory for his once friends. This is really happening? Or is it?

"How do you know Maven?" Thomas rubs his head.

Iris answers honest. Or so he thinks. His intuition seems to mostly have gone missing if it ever existed.

"I didn't until we were introduced. There has always been something between our families."

"Because money?"

"Let's call it that."

He falls asleep next to her, for a minute, or two, or maybe twenty. Since the world rushes by so senseless, time has become an abstract concept. Still in his tired exhaustion he dreams, and all he sees is Shade Barrows corpse and blood and the face of his sister.

If Iris notices the way he shakes and sweats she doesn't comment on it. He is grateful for it.

He doesn't try to hug her again or even just get too close.

At least Iris will not blame him for what has happened. He doesn't even care why she has decided to call in favors and bail him out. The night when the towers burned were bad. But not like this.

This is another kind of bad. He isn't sure the memories will ever subdue and retract from his brain.

"Do you know what happened to..." He starts but cannot end up the sentence correctly.

"Your sister is under arrest and will be charged with illegal possession of a firearm and since she confessed to it multiple times, homicide or even murder. She gave them all they wanted and continues to say you were only there by accident."

"She didn't do it." He whispers. "It was an accident. It was me, I thought it would be great idea to take it along and load it and then her and Samos fighting over the gun."

Iris seems unsurprised and just takes the information. "Regardless of that, I believe I haven't heard his name dropped in the investigation at all. But I am just repeating what I caught , so I can't say for sure. Did you tell people about it?"

"I don't want to tell people anything anymore." Thomas just says. "I shouldn't have told you."


	39. Holes

_Maven_

He stands in front of the glass doors, staring at the elevator button, watching the elevator rise with the blinking arrow.

There is a bag at his feet, a scruffy old thing not matching with the rest of his clothes or even on the clean floor. It is filled to the brim with clothes and books, brushes and pencils, things that ultimately do not belong to him but still hold some meaning. He half expected the door to be broken open with smashing force, half destroying the weakly doorframe. Gladly nothing has happened. Except for the fact, it was abandoned with its inhabitants arrested.

Not the only arrest this day.

He didn't want to return after he has just straight runoff through the middle, having a very unpleasant day stuck in between his brother and Julian Jacos, with Samson trying to call him up the entire time and his mother ultimately being...removed.

But here he is. It feels like he has been stealing things and retrieves them for someone else from a haunted place he knows he wouldn't want to be.  
It's stealing them for himself as much, though. And who cares about a bag of clothes and accessories on this morning?

This last days Maven Calore has, at least, partly taken back whatever needed to appease the guilt inside his chest and the demands of people he was told to trust once. It feels not right at all, and the guilt has not gone away. Instead it has become something poisonous curled up in his bones.

 _What is one more poisonous thought, harming others or himself?_

He feels split about his descent into the emotional abyss and the consequences it has for his life.

Especially since he'll have to make more and more decisions soon enough that not only take the past into account, but the future.

Now that the place he used to share with his mother is the only option left, for now, he finds himself trying to accommodate. And he also wants to barricade the doors as soon as Iris has returned.

The elevator stops with a pinging sound poking in his ear.

For whatever it is worth. He has never been gladder to see Thomas face, whatever it looks like. Recent events with a staircase and a sling pale in comparison to the relief he feels now.

Thomas looks tired like Maven can't ever remember seeing him. Physically unharmed, but nothing about that is reassuring. His hair is wild. His face has lost any color, with angry red rims and shadowy marks clawing under his eyes that rival anything Maven sees in the mirror every day. Sharp-edged and rough. A glass ghost.

Even in all this time on the street freezing in the concrete walls of a building, even in all the heartbreak, all the stressed out days and even the fighting, when something is going wrong, you can at least count on Thomas to find a quantum of something akin to optimism, if only to survive. Not at peace, but definitely alive.

Now he is just staring straight at him with exhaustion thinly veiled in his brown eyes.

"Iris," His tongue feels like a box cutter in his oral cavity.

"Thanks for picking me up." Thomas musters to say somehow. Like a sleepwalker, almost.

She gives him a long meaningful look, eyes brushing over Thomas.

"You're welcome." She brushes a strand of hair out of her face with care. "I guess you want to be left alone for now."

He can't afford to deal with her now too, it'll have to be postponed. At least her interests align for the time being.

"Appreciated." Maven answers thin-lipped. "Thomas." He waits for something. He isn't sure what.

There is no answer for him coming.

"See you later." Thomas just says into the general direction where Iris' feet are. She gives them one more smile. The elevator closes again.

Maven stretches his hand out and Thomas flinches back.

It remembers him of the shaking night on the streets and how he sat in the bathtub.

 _We repeat ourselves_ , he thinks, without any judgment or bitterness this time.

Instead, he just turns around and steps inside, dragging himself into the hallway, entering a code.

"I got some of your things." He points at the bag.

"Great."

"I hope you don't mind staying here."

"No."

Their steps are muffled on the ground. As if they walk a wire in a straight line they concentrate hard on their feet not to fall down. It is too bright inside, even with the light dimmed. Too white and silver.

"I told my mother I wouldn't live with her anymore before she got arrested." Maven whispers. "And I talked to my brother. But...I thought you may not want to go the apartment."

Thomas just shrugs.

"Do you really want to stay with me?" Maven's voice whispers back.

"Yeah, why not."

He turns to continue walking, for whatever reason. His feet drag over the ground like there are weights on his ankles.

It's silent, eerily grey gooey silence that sticks to your throat whenever you breathe.

"Did you eat yet?"

Thomas gives no answer.

"Let's eat something."Maven decides and Thomas shrugs again.

In the end, he stops every second step, turning around and stares.

Thomas just watches him at the cupboards, moving to the fridge.

He blinks unmoved.

Eating is just as mechanical as the rest of the movements.

Fork picks food up. He chews silent. He stares at Maven with bloodshot eyes broken into mirrors.

"So Elara's arrested, yeah?"

"She is," Maven explains. "For now. Not for long I suspect. But it's safe to say her reputation has been harmed, and she is left weak."

"Good for you standing up." Thomas praises colorless and stabs some food with his fork again. "Good for talking to Cal too."

 _Chewing, swallowing, repeat_.  
 _ **Eclectic circles and repetition.**_

He just sits there and doesn't do anything.

When he is finished, he stands up slowly. In the deafening silence, his own words are too loud and come too late.

„Want to watch a movie?" Meaningless words.

Thomas doesn't fight him or attempts to joke.

„You can pick."

He stands in the doorframe and looks at the tidy room with the curtains drawn back to let in a sliver of white and yellow light.

He was never the best at comforting people. Not when it had to be honest and real. It shows now in his disability to simply and genuinely do anything to soothe someone he loves with possession.

"We can do something else."

"No, I- it's okay." Thomas disagrees. "And I want to watch a movie."

Senselessly skipping through moving pictures on the screen, one shoulder slightly resting against the other, they sit in his blank bedroom on the soft mattress.

The movie is possibly the worst thing he has ever seen.

It's trashy and cheesy and the dialogue sucks. It is the perfect mixture they usually make fun about. Sometimes he has to even watch it more than once, that has happened, and Thomas repeats his favorite pieces of dialogue afterward for a while when he talks to people and has too much fun with all the eye rolls and friendly enduring.

He stares at the flickering without realizing what the plot is, though, and so he stays mute.  
Disconnected and strange how they just sit together. Thomas fiddles with the mouse on the screen again. One flicker of grey followed by moving fading figures that disappear as fast before one sound or word is even to be recognized. Lands at the bad movie again.

It's like a sun erupts in my chest when you kiss me, Thomas said. Maybe that is true. One sun, just like the warmth of his hands and the way he gifts and gives away smiles. There isn't any warmth and sunlight now. And perhaps he is just as selfish as always, but he despises it.

Maven snaps the laptop shut without much force and effect.

„Thomas." Maven demands. He knows he sounds positively angry, almost. Upset about Thomas lack of being anything. "Can you say something?"

"I don't want to say anything," Is all Thomas answers. "I don't have anything to say. It was my fault."

„What are you talking about?" Maven asks. His hands are the only remotely thing alive in the numb space of the room, curling together.

It's a spark of life is Thomas cracked face even Maven can recognize without fail. Fragile lines of sorrow running through.

"It was my fault." He shakes hard while he just holds his head between his hands, fingers buried into strands of hair, gripping and twisting.

"My fault. I should have done everything different or not at all. I could have.."

"Thomas." Maven says and leans over. For once their roles are reverting. It's not Thomas talking him through fits of fear, keeping his restless night's company.

"I should have...Mave, I should- I was like some child throwing a tantrum, and now he is dead, and my sister." Thomas repeats with a raw throat."And _Mare, her face when-"_

"Stop." His fingers untie the tangled digits from Thomas' head, grip them just as unwilling to let go. "Stop."

"I can't'- I can't-" Tears have started, heaving sobs. It's a quivering hand clawing into the soft fabric of his shirt. "I can't think, I can't think."

And Maven lets him. He doesn't protest or ask or even do more than breath in one hissing sound, emptying his lungs before pressing his mouth on his head.

It's not exactly a very friendly touch. More of a fight and a force driving a rough touch onto his body like a hammer may crash onto a stone, bristling with the resistance of someone fighting the same as longing.

Neither of them is relieved when it stops. Instead, there is the apathy again and something dark and heavy.

He calls some people, at least. It gives Maven some time to settle in the chaos of letters and messages and urgent phonecalls himself.

Samson could be angry or frantic, he can't say for sure.

"Finally," Is all he says. "I need some decisions and sadly I can't make them alone."

"I thought my mother told you to handle all of it. If you haven't heard yet-"

"She told me if something happened, even if you were clearly out in the wrong, you should still be involved in decisionmaking. She left it to you."

"She left it to me?" He repeats and clutches the phone.

"She has left some instructions with her lawyers. Are you available tomorrow?"

He looks over to Thomas the glass ghost. Thinks about his brother.

"I am. Of course."

Days are empty, somehow, and filled with silence and stress and discussions. He finds thomas mostly curled together on a couch when he has time to sit next to him.

„Funerals are horrifying. Especially for someone hating crowds and big speeches." Maven whispers when they lie in the bed.

"I bet the one for your father was big," Thomas says, unempathically and pale.

"It was."

They huff and stare at the ceiling, not touching anymore.

"I'll go. But I guess it will end badly."

"I can go with you."

"No, please don't- I need to have a talk."

"Then I will wait."

Thomas shrugs in the shroud of darkness.

He remembers the last time he had to tug in a tie for Thomas. Now in the dim sun rising they just stare at each other while his hands work efficient and fast. Knotting, holding, tugging, fastening a button.

"Just come back and we leave if you can't handle it."

"Because running is all I am good for," Thomas mutters.

He isn't too fond of graveyards. He keeps his distance, as promised, looks down at his phone.

The entrance with the fence and iron gate lies abandoned except for himself standing in it. Looking over a field of dead souls and stones. It itches in his hands. He puts them in his pockets.

For a while everything is silent. Then, as the first thing, he sees a very familiar frame of a girl that haunted him into angry fits and lonely moments.

He can easily see Thomas making his way up to her and another figure.

He steps in, one step closer, two steps.

His eyes scan the scene painted before him in detail. Thomas is pale with angry red splotches drawn over his face and shadowy marks clawing under his eyes. He looks angry and sad like Maven can't ever remember seeing him.

Their voices get lost between the stones and marks, one yell, barked and forced out.

Mixed with fear the anger hisses along in it.

A nerve in his neck twitches unseemingly, accompanied by something he can't place and identify completely when he looks at Mare.

The third party is clearly recognisable as Diana Farley. He sees her pale face between the stones and holes when she is the first to walk off.

It's a portrait of grief, to stick with the painting metaphors, fine strokes of anger and fear and love on a canvas of loss.

It's easy to notice it. Hard to miss, really.

He stops and waits.

Mare gestures and Thomas shakes his head. Then she turns around and he just does the same.

They all have parted ways.

It feels like sneaking up when he steps over the soft earth and stone in the cold.

"Do you want to leave?"

"Before it has even started?" Thomas mutters. "No, no but just leave me alone. You can go. Don't wait up. I don't want to be coddled by you right now."

"Thomas."

"No. Just leave."

And with that, it's once again at the peek of evil in a valley of sorrow and anger.


	40. So I don't say anything

_Thomas_

There's an invisible wall. It is a barrier of decency in a place like a graveyard. People hold their tongues and their distance.

 _It was my fault, I know it was my fault_ , he remembers the echo over the ground.

 _Does that bring him back? Does that bring him back, Thomas?_

 _Never talk to me again._

The place is not packed with people. At first, he recognizes Mrs. Barrow in the back. He only sees her greying hair flowing over her back. Then he sees a familiar frame in a wheelchair.

Then there is Mare Barrow of course.

Farley with a familiar looking, pretty teenage girl he recognizes as another sibling.

He stands as far away as possible and he doesn't want to get closer as long they are here.

He doesn't know why he came anyway.

It isn't as if he can share a funny story and make people feel better.

It isn't as if he can raise Shade Barrow from the dead and undo the damage.

It isn't as if he knows much about death and has the wisdom to share.

The sun is cackling from the sky until clouds shut it off.

The rest goes by quietly, like water flowing down the river on a cold night. Few people say things.

It's all silence and accusations, tied tongues and choked breaths trying to show a hint of strength.

Thomas shifts on his spot and just stares at the assembly of misery.

What would he say? There's nothing to take the pain away. He's not good with speeches. It would harm more than it would help. He has already proven that the second he stepped up to them before the whole burial and grief has even started to impact. He has pushed and they have returned the favour.

Thomas stares at the faces.

When he moves his limbs he feels mechanic. He's made of some lifeless material.

There's only cold.

He should be at least a decent friend now, shouldn't he?

 _Am I supposed to apologize? What does she expect? What do people want to hear? Another tasteless joke, some fake smile, oh yeah, that would go well_.

He watches Mare Barrows back.

Thomas doesn't attempt to talk to her. He could hug her. But they don't like hugging each other. And what if they did? Doesn't change anything.

He could probably walk up to Farley. His hand could grab hers. They would be cold and she would squeeze back. If he wasn't the one responsible.

He just stands there and tries to keep control.

He gives her a look, but their eyes don't meet. Just studies her profile, a thin veil of restlessness. A little mix of sorrow and numbness and anger.

Then he stares off into the distance. Let's go. Can't walk up to anyone.

Someone attempts to talk to him once or twice, uttering meaningless phrases. He doesn't even want to respond.

 _Thank you for being meaningless,_ he thinks. _For using words that are meant to be said in a situation like this. Thanks for being prepared._

Thomas has no tears. Nothing of this is really happening. Is it?

When they finally are all done he doesn't know how to carry on.

They wander through the foggy big graveyard past other dead people. Past stones and withered grass, past flowers someone left. Past burned down candles.

It's not really raining. More of a faint drizzle, mist seeping into cold bones and fine clothes.

He feels like his jacket is shrinking on him.

He stands on the dig and stares down.

There is a coffin inside there with one of his best friends. It's just a piece of wood. It will rot in the ground.

What's to do?

A flower lays beside the stone. And there is dirt everywhere.

Dirt. That's all there is. Earth swallowing a lifeless body.

There is nothing left to look at.

Just a box with a corpse.

Flowers. Why? That's just another waste. People cut off beautiful things to let them die alongside a meaningless box.

He can't get over the coffin. Over the wooden...thing.

Another corpse.

Another person dead. As if the world cares.

No one cares he'll never meet his kid, or grow old with his girlfriend, or sit with Thomas on a couch and try to encourage him anymore. He'll not ever see his parents or siblings again.

There's a million of those. So why SHOULD the world turn around and stop?

He just stares at a stone and can't even read the familiar name on it.

When Thomas looks up he sees a very familiar silhouette, keeping distance, between gravestones and wet ground.

He isn't so surprised to see Cameron. If anyone, she would wait for him.

He doesn't want her to.

Just like told Maven to leave him alone, he doesn't want her now.

His feet cross the distance in no time, but his mind is far away.

He thought he would be angry or sad, but he feels nothing. He feels empty. He feels like he's lowered down along with the wooden box. No, that's too dramatic. He's not mourning. He's too shallow and confused.

"I am okay," He just presses out of his throat. His voice sounds like someone else. It sounds almost chipper.

„Liar," Cameron mutters.

He turns away from her, flinching under her presence. He doesn't feel like he deserves any kindness.

Cameron's hand is a steel trap on his wrist, even though her touch is reluctant and soft.

He shakes his head and pries her crooked fingers away.

She keeps her distance after that. But she doesn't let him out of her sight. Instead, they just move along the graveyard, walk out of the gate and disappear. And no one bothers, because everyone is dead on a graveyard or mourning in their own way.

And the world moves on and on and on, and everything makes no sense. It is all useless anyway.

They catch a train.

Cameron hates it. But she is still sitting beside him.

Thomas leans his head against the cool glass and watches his reflection without really seeing it. It is like you have a camera, and it unfocuses and stays blurry.

They don't talk.

The train rattles by.

A voice announces the next stop.

A door beeps.

People get in and out.

The door closes with a shut, a loud clicking in the silence.

Thomas breathes in. He should cry again, lose himself as he has in that hurt moment on the bed, just crying and letting go. That would be appropriate, right? He can't. He feels wooden and wrong.

Like nothing is real and he walks on clouds.

And the sadness is just completely poofed, vanished and transformed to anger and something dark and numb.

He didn't deserve to cry anyway. He shouldn't have been breaking down.

Thomas clears his throat, sniffs once. Cameron's braided head flings around and her eyes look at him.

"When my sister was really little, like just learning how to run and climb, my Mom told me to keep an eye on her for a moment. Hanni was in the kitchen." He says.

Cameron watches cautiously over him but doesn't answer.

"She told me she would be back in a second." He continues after she just waits. "Can't remember why. But I was super annoyed I couldn't go out and play and had to watch my sister. So she did toddler stuff, climbing on chairs, being reckless and having fun. And I could have watched her closely, she begged me for attention. But I didn't want to. And she fell down and I tried to get her. But her face still hit the ground."

His fingers want to claw at his head again, but they don't. He takes a course in self-control from Maven and folds them in his lap like he always does, one bionic arm hidden under a sleeve and a flame on fingers. Camerons crooked fingers are so close, he could just take them. He considers it.

"And I just stood there not even really holding her. She started crying. And my sister came over and took her from me before my mom rushed back in. And I felt bad. I was really sure my sister was as disappointed as my mother. I was sure she would yell at me because I had almost killed my baby sister, you know."

"Your mother is not the yelling type." She says.

"No, she isn't, and she didn't. You know what she said?" His fingers crawl away from her hand, for the first time ever he can't stand to be touched. "You tried to catch her, didn't you? she asked me. And I said I could have tried harder. And even though she tried to reassure me, I knew it wasn't true. I could have tried harder, but I didn't." He huffs out a choking piece of laughter. "I was responsible, and I wasn't good at it. I never really was, ever. People always had to pick me up when I struggled. And because they knew, everyone I love treated me careful, and because I am an asshole and a moron, I just got them killed. And I can't catch Farley, Barrow, or even Maven right now, I can't try harder, and I can't help them. Because I am still just watching people get hurt and make it worse. And I don't know what to do or say to make it right."

"So you don't say anything."

"Yeah, so I don't say anything anymore." He agrees and turns to lean his chin against the glass again.

* * *

He can't go to the apartment. He can't go to Maven's place. Since Cameron doesn't make an attempt to goat him to her place, wherever that is now, he only has one other option.

Nothing in the Stilts ever really changes. It's all the same piles of rubbish and the same old buildings tumbling down.

His mother sits on the small table in the kitchen. When she sees him she jumps up. Her body is bent forward and tired but her grip is iron hard and strong on his neck.

„Tommy, I'm so glad you are here."

„Me too, Mom" He doesn't know how to act. So he doesn't say anything. Doesn't try and hug her. Just crosses his arms and claws his hands into his jacket.

His father is not here, and that is for the best because he is sure, he'd blame him for the loss of Hannah too. The wrong child in prison, his eyes would say. And damn, he is right.

The marks on the door read 'Thomas, Ida, Hannah' and grown in height each passing date. Without his sister, it feels like some banished place. It is the shame and the guilt and they would drown him in there.

The Tv is on.

„Hey," he says to his little sister staring at the screen, barely blinking. She's very thoughtful. She's a child but that doesn't make her oblivious.

„Hey," she whispers back. They sit both cross-legged and silent for a while.

„How are you doing?" he decides to ask, ignoring the garish sounds of some bright cartoon figures.

„Okay." She answers, braids falling into her face. „ And you?"

„I'm okay too I guess." He lies to her.

Cameron is somewhere behind him, and he can hear his mother say something, very quiet and hushed as if she doesn't want to disturb her children drowning on a moving image in a Tv screen.

„Is Hannah going to stay in prison? People like us get treated badly in there, right?" his sister then asks and he stares at her in shock. A kid her age shouldn't ask these questions. A girl that was just drawing hearts with a marker and dressed up as a fairy princess.

„Who says that?" he stutters.

„A boy in my class says people like us get hurt in prison. „ She twirls the end of her braid around her tiny finger.

„Squishy," he brings himself to say. „I swear, Hanni will not stay in prison."

„Is everything going to be okay?" she asks. Her eyes are big and hopeful and he can't.

 _Yeah. Yeah, you'll see. It'll be tough for a while. But then stuff is going to be great._

He can't stand to say it.

"Don't know."

His little sister just looks helpless. Thomas is sorry he is useless. Like he always was for her. And everyone else, really.  
His mother can't stop her hands touching him, holding him. He doesn't really feel it. His mother cradles him like he is a precious, fragile creature and he moves out of range from her touch.

„It's good Cameron is here." She still tries and says. They don't talk about his sister. Or about the burial.

He just shrugs. „She can go wherever she wants. And she likes you."

„Cameron isn't here because she likes me." His mother is too warm and soft. It stings through the apathetic cocoon he has wrapped himself into. „ And you know that."

„I am okay." He tells her the same as everyone else.

His mother waits and watches along with Cameron. Thomas just hides next to his little sister, curling together on the cushions and staring at the Tv, occasionally saying something to her.

Maybe some hours pass like this.

„Weird," Thomas says, looking around the room. There are some memories of how he had to move in with his sister. Fighting over who got to sleep up and which one got the lower bunk. How they were both pissed their baby sister had a room for themselves, especially Hannah. And how she covered when teenage Thomas decided to go on nighttime sprees. Too loud music. "Nothing has changed, really."

But it always does, and the change hurts.

He just rolls together on the bed. His phone is turned off.

Better not risk any calls or messages. He can't read anything. He couldn't even read the signs on the train.

Or the name of his dead friend on the stone.

Camerons' voice is a static noise in the back of his head. He just nods occasionally.

It takes a while to fall asleep. He feels tired but at the same time, he is wide awake. It's uncanny.

He stays in their old room.

His father comes home. He hears his shushed answers. The way his mother whispers back.

With his last bit of strength, he pulls the blanket over his head and ignores them.

Cameron is the one pulling at it in the early morning, or late evening, or whatever time it is.

"Your Mom made your favorite food." She just says.

When he finally does speak, he doesn't say any of the things piled up in his head.

„I'm not hungry." He whispers, not getting up, tangled in his blankets.

"Bullshit," Cameron says.

He supposes it's true. He hasn't eaten since the call.

He doesn't feel the need, but his body suggests it with a rumbling stomach.

"Tell my mom I am not hungry." It sounds harder than anticipated. He rolls around, faces the wall and ignores her.

"Thomas." She says.

"Stop." He hisses at her. "Just stop, stop. You got a brother, right? The one you lost? Try to get him back somehow, but stop bothering me. I am not your brother. I am not your brother and I don't need you fussing over me. Get your life together. You are worse than all the others. You are fifteen, orphaned, homeless and treat people like shit. "

"You absolute moron." Her voice shakes a little. "You absolute, complete asshole."

When she leaves, he doesn't even say her goodbye. It is shitty. But he can't.

The hours turn to holes inside his mind.

* * *

The next one to appear is his mother.

"Tommy my baby," she says, and he hates her because he doesn't deserve being pitied or coddled. He didn't die. He didn't lose a son, a boyfriend, or a brother. He is just a shitty friend again."What happened to Hannah was wrong but we can't change it. She chose to take the gun because she loves you. And I love you too. Remember, love, is patient?"

„Yeah, I remember." How could he forget?

She sits beside him on the bed, mattress sinking slightly. She has to hunch not to hit her head on the wooden ceiling between the beds.

„Shade was your friend." She tries to get further. „And I know it hurts terribly to lose a friend. Take any time you need and get better."

He doesn't want to talk about it.

„What can I do to help you?"

„I don't know." He answers. _Leave me alone, for starters, Mom_ , he thinks.

It's not even meant in any nasty way. He is just not there to settle it.

She shifts beside him.

"You should call Maven. I am sure he would like that."

"Did you talk to him?" He just asks.

Her hand smoothes over his messy hair.

"He called me. Maybe invite him over. We wanted to anyway."

He tries to smile at her. It's a mediocre outcome at best. „Dad will love that."

"He'll keep his mouth shut. Promise."

He just shrugs.

"Let's call your boyfriend." His mother decides and grabs his phone.

She has dragged him out of bed when it knocks on the door. He just lies on the couch instead. It's the same as before, really. Not getting up. Not reacting much. His mother kisses his head.

She hugs his boyfriend, and if he was able to reach down and pull any emotion up, he would maybe think it is endearing to see her care so much. Or how flustered and confused the display of a weird out of place hug from Thomas mother makes Maven. He'd chuckle through it.

"Cameron was over, but she had to leave." He can hear her explain. "Get him to eat something."

Thomas doesn't even look up to know the familiar movement of feet, the faint smell and the slender pale hands glued to pockets.

"Your phone was turned off." Maven says stiffly.

„I should have called you after I went to the funeral." He mutters and hides his face on the couch's armrest. „I was an asshole. I am still an asshole."

„ Thomas," Maven answers and even if he never calls him some kind of pet name it's filled to the brim with something fragile and beautiful Thomas isn't able to catch. „You're still a good person."

„Want to take this over to another room?" Thomas offers because physical was easy before and maybe it'll keep him up and away.

„Your family is around. As in, your mother barges through doors and you have a seven-year-old sister prancing around attacking people with crayons." Maven throws him a ridiculed look. „I'm not going to sleep with you."

„Who says anything about sex?" Thomas shakes his head. „There's a lot in between as far as I know."

Buttons are terribly inconvienent for his shaking hands. It needs a pair more to help him slip out of the jacket and they are steady working, continuing on the shirt until he just carelessly slips out of it and it falls on the floor.

Lips trailing a line along his neck and down the spider on his shoulder. No bites and scratches this time.

Just featherlight touches from one ghost to another.

He wonders if anyone is at home to hear him have quality time with his boyfriend.

But instead of being mortified he feels nothing much, just the low tired aching of his body and the feeling like he just flipped off everyone.

It's dark everywhere when he peels himself off from an uneasy sleeping Maven after staring at the ceiling.

His feet tap over the floor in the dark. He knows every inch and every bit of the floorboards. The house of his childhood.

Thomas father is an imposing shadow and intrudes the fake peace.

He wears a jacket. Looks like he has just come home.

He studies his son in the dim grey darkness. His naked arms, his bare feet, his muted expression of surprise.

They might as well be strangers.

But Thomas feels like he has at least to say one thing to his father.

"It should have been me," He croaks, tongue suddenly glued to the back of his throat.

"Tommy," His father says, no accusation, no anger, no disappointment. Calling him Tommy like he almost never does. Tommy is what people called him when he was an acne eaten scruffy twelve-year-old stealing. Tommy is what his family calls him. "Tommy, what are you talking about?"

"It should have been me," he repeats. "She wants to be a lawyer. She is a good one. "

He expects him to agree. Instead, his father stares just as silent as himself. The markings on the door and the pictures littering the hallway with his life on them.

He expects him to yell.

A shattering burst of anger and hatred.

That would be fine.

Thomas father, to his surprise, doesn't yell now. "You lost a friend, Thomas. Don't be so hard on yourself."

That is not what he wants to hear.

"You were right." Thomas tries again. He takes a long breath." I am a bad and lazy person that can't take responsibility. You were right about everything, Dad. I don't deserve anything. I will never be a good and valuable person. I get why you hate me. I hate myself too most days."

His father moves one step. A feet back, evading. As if he doesn't believe Thomas and wants to distance himself. Then he steps forward instead.

 _How could someone that shared my blood don't lend me a hand? Always exploding in my face. From the day I turned into a difficult teenager to now. He never really got me. Stuck in some pictures from the past._

"You-" Is all his father says.

He doesn't wait for him to continue, slipping back inside his room to see Maven wait.

Thomas just barricades the door with his body and wishes he could cry.

* * *

They curl up on his mattress in a very familiar way, two bodies in the dim light. He's surprised he finds the strength to pull up the covers over them before he just closes his eyes and lies there, a face pressed into his neck.

Three days later between the suffocating caring of his mother, the silent ceasefire with his father and Maven breathing on his neck he can't stand it anymore.

And even though his father does not say a word, just as his mother has promised, it's clear he dislikes the thought of Thomas and his boyfriend in the house. They clearly don't like each other at all, barely tolerating their existence.

The worst is probably the kicked puppy eyes his little sister makes, confused and worried because adults never really explain to kids what worries them. And so they piece it together badly with everything horrible they learn through listening.

He drags himself out into the world just to escape and doesn't know where to go.

Maven is helicoptering around and Thomas feels like he will burst into tiny shards of restless energy.

Cameron is just gone. She doesn't try to call him.

He doesn't try to call her.

Same goes clearly for other people he used to annoy on a daily basis.

He picks up things from the apartment. It hurts to think about all the memories in these small chaotic walls. They ripple like uneasy waves ready to grow vicious and float him. He brings them over to his parents first and then he just rightously drags them in a big back into the empty appartment Maven used to share with his mother. He has all the codes and keys. He is welcomed with open arms by helicopter Maven keeping his precious broken treasure of a boyfriend close.

* * *

Surprisingly enough for Thomas, Iris stays around and they talk regularly. A few messages a day, maybe a perfect split amount he would usually divide his attention. But he doesn't write Farley much, Mare not at all and hangs the phone up while calling Cameron . And he doesn't need to write Hannah.

Calling Iris or meeting up anywhere in the afternoon is always easing him a little. They don't spend the big time and they don't party or anything. He learns a thing or two about her. She already knows more than enough about him.

But even more surprising to Thomas is the way he is at least able to knit Iris and Maven together when they are spending time and Maven is present.

They spend New years eve like that. He has Iris on one side and Maven on the other. He has an only mild interest in the fireworks. They sound like gunshots in the distance. Somehow it has come to this, at Mavens apartment. It isn't like she doesn't belong. This one is way bigger and less filled with clunky old breaking furniture. But it's still very empty. Only the barest of things have been picked up to channel some small comfort.

They watch each other too very closely, Maven and Iris. It could settle to more questions but Thomas just is glad there is no fight and no malicious intent. He doesn't want to care about it.

But that will settle if she wants to stick. And if not it isn't anything to bother him with.

„Happy New year, I guess this is it" he simply says, leaning over and giving Maven a kiss on one side of his face. „You think this one will be as terrible as the last ?"

„Let's wait until summer to decide that." Maven answers.

Thomas laughs colorless. Gives him another kiss.

„You too, thank you," is what he says to Iris.

There is a rocket too close for comfort and it explodes over the window in a shower of thunder. Thomas ducks forward closer to her.

„Sorry." He mutters. „Happy new year, Iris."

She gives him a little smile. Dipped in orange and black, her grey eyes watch him. „Happy New year, Thomas. Even though it is apparent you hate all of this."

He takes her hand. Laughs a little because it's true. She keeps his fire sprinkled fingers between her palms.

They hold hands for a while.

He realizes she is his only friend at the moment. And he's grateful.

But never has he missed his old self and the people attached to it more.


	41. Blue, Grey and Sharper Edges

_Thomas_

He doesn't return to the apartment for the next four weeks. He stays in the empty space Elara has left, both figurative and quite literally, because who wouldn't want to stay in a place that has a bathroom almost as big as the apartment he used to share?

He lets his mother handle trouble with their landlord, but since he doesn't hear anything from her about it after she has addressed it, he is sure she has settled it somehow. He is fine if he doesn't have to take one step into his sister's room. It is generally bugging him, irking the wrong way.

Maybe it's good if he never returns there. He does have a lot of nice memories in this house.

 _Farley at his table smiling, Cameron barefoot on the carpet, Shade at the counter, cracking jokes and playing video games with his sister and Kilorn, trying to talk about music with Mare and her not giving up despite his bad taste and no opinions. Kissing Maven in his room, in the hallway and every doorframe hello and goodbye and I love you. The smell of bread and the sound of bad singing._

But now they just do not feel right anymore.

Maybe, just like his old phone with all the cracks, he just needs a new one again.

This is definitely not it, not this place, architected and orchestrated after the will of the wicked witch queen, but at least it is better. It is better than getting pitied by his mother and treated like a trespasser by his father, and it is better than being homeless. In fact, it does have certain perks. Especially when you get fired from your job and don't care to find a new one.

 _Put that in my resume_ , he thinks. _Dropped out of school and never graduated anywhere, and is good at getting fired for just not showing up._

But what if he did show up? They'd have talked behind his back. They'd have said things about his sister, his family. And whatever force residents in the higher planes of existence forgive him, but if he had ever been exposed to Ptolemus Samos again he'd have picked a fight. Probably would have lost devastating, but that doesn't matter.

Usually, at this hour, it is dead silent because Thomas either sleeps or shuffles around. Now it isn't quiet at all. It's a playlist Maven has tried to convince Thomas to listen to for months, only for Thomas to shuffle through and never open it again. Now it blares through the rooms.

The table has been transformed into a messy workspace, and a laptop shoved in between them, pencils and a mug. It almost looks like people are actually living here for a while. It takes effort to make a clinically clean and big place like this a mess. It helps if you have nothing else to do and the original residents are either very busy and treating you like some fragile cup of china, watching your every step or still locked up. The first time he moves something in the white and sterile space he expects to trigger some alarm. When no one even cares, he just senselessly moves things around, rearranges everything chaotically. It is only him most of the time, and he grows bored in his self inflicted solitary easily. The worst is when Maven's side of the bed stays empty because then Thomas just takes on his habit of wandering around at night too, not sleeping at all or not very good. And so he just sits either on the desk in Maven's room (technically his room too, even if all his clothes and ragbag is storaged in the guest room down the hall) or in the long white and chrome living room with the uncomfortable furniture and draws. Sometimes with a wild mix of coal smearing over paper, sometimes with the laptop he received back and the tablet.

In between the mess Maven finds him cross-legged on the couch, hair wet and wild, too big grey sweater. They always looked wildly different, with Thomas being the dirty, messy one with too long hair. It only has stayed that way, and somehow feels like it has gotten worse. Barefoot grinning Thomas against shiny shoes, accurate buttoned but tired looking Maven. His collar is slightly crumbled.

"Good morning, Mr. Calore," Thomas says, whistling through his teeth and turning the music off. It wallows and echoes through the space between them. "Looking sharp in your suit, might I say."

"You're in good mood." He sounds like he hasn't expected that. Maybe he just thinks Thomas has completely lost it by now, circling like some animal in an enclosure and going nuts. Thomas doesn't blame him. He isn't sure he hasn't lost it. Who knows.

"What, I can't just be nice to you because I miss you?"He tries to persuade them both, patting Mavens leg next to his sitting position. "I didn't really see you for two days. And we live together. Want a coffee?"

"I have a very tight schedule right now, so I can't stay for long." The pale hand touches his own for a slight moment. It's warm- that is good. "I had to grab some things from mother's office."

Notice how it's still "mother". Thomas wonders if it's the only habit or still something else. After that fallout he was sure they were done. The situation itself not. And only for a second, forgetting how she treats people, who she is, he could almost feel sorry because losing family, chosen or by blood, hurts.

But his emotional output is very thinly stocked these last weeks. Especially for someone like her.

He just makes a grimace for himself, but it doesn't go by unnoticed.

"I called you, you know I had some things to do. Regarding family business. _"  
_

 _Ah, and there it goes again.  
_

"You being shady again?"

 _It isn't like the people in question can't take better care for themselves and I can't take any responsibility anyway._

Maven huffs indifferent. "Shady sounds as if I was doing anything else than regulating the mess I made, banter with lawyers and block most advances from greedy journalists smelling blood _."_

"Apart from firing and commanding people around? Yeah yeah." Thomas scratches his nose. Tries to sound casual. "How is your brother doing?"

"Moderately, with the unfortunate existence of his uncle butting his head in. Which reminds me of warning you about a possible meeting later in the evening."

Thomas huffs. A warning so he can barricade himself or just brace himself to be ready in _fuck you mode._ It is probably for the best Maven finds it charming or easier at least to know he doesn't go anywhere most days. "Oh don't worry, I won't be around later. I am meeting with Iris for coffee after her workout, she helps me sort through the latest mess of art. She has a very aesthetic eye I trust." he looks up at his boyfriend again, studies the thin line of his mouth and the folded hands gripping to each other tightly. "Don't look like I want to run off with her, Mave." _  
_

"You never leave the house. And I hoped you would stay. I may need you." _  
_

"So I can't really contribute to you two fighting, and my only advice is: don't be a complete dick. I'll make it up later if you still _need_ me then." Thomas uses his smoothest impression. "Put the table to use, if you get what I mean." He gives Maven a look just to make sure it has landed.

"And you tried to be so subtle, Tommy." He throws back a long look of himself before his eyes evade Thomas. Thomas just squints in the direction Maven's eyes have wandered.

"And you brought Samson," Thomas notes, sniffing once noisily when he is sure he has the third wheels attention. "Pal, how you're doing?" _Kicked a puppy already?_

If Samson could get his evil little fingers on him to hurt him badly he is sure he would. At least that is what his eyes say as long as he is forced to watch Thomas. Samson is still creepily slick and terrifying like some spiderling. Maybe that's just because of the small things in the structure of his face and the colors of his hair and eyes remind him very much of Elara.

But Maven treating him like careful porcelain does have its perks sometimes, he can't deny it, not as long as he is living here and Samson can only give him a disgusted look or an insult here and there.

It's so unfair. He could almost be sorry. If he wasn't so full blown on his fuck you attitude again. It helps, most days at least, especially when you got to work through your newfound presence on the internet. Not just insults like the mugshot this time, though, there is some more to it. Sure, a lot of people ask brash questions about his sister. Because somehow, the situation has been caught after the funeral and all accusations on Barrow and Farley and the rest of the gang dropped and focus shifting. Or about his relationship. Or just about the fact he's a Red Rat nesting inside a nice, nice big rich place and known in the past for drawing images that made it through certain circles online and in media. _Pretentious_ is the nicest word he has been called after someone discussed his private life with his silver boyfriend whose a prominent feature in every scandal. Even though Maven is still deep down the closet in official. It's almost a habit as of now that he doesn't talk about it.

He stays away from political imagery as far as he can. He doesn't tell anyone about his old friends. He could probably make a quick dime here and there selling all of them out. He could tell some sob stories about life in the Stilts and Lightning. He doesn't. He doesn't talk to anyone and doesn't say anything. He rarely ever leaves the house. When he does he is glad if someone keeps stuff off his back.

Samson's presence at that has one tiny advantage. He hates journalists and protesters and generally unseemly impudent questioning that isn't done by him more than Thomas. So he cares that no one lurks around and waits to ask those questions. That's only because he is something like Maven's evil minion.

Maven's phone makes an irritating shrill sound and it rips through the tense silence. It distracts him from the battle of glances that are either murderous or straight up provoking.

Thomas takes his mug and slurps as loud as he can, not losing track of Samson.

Samson stares back a barely concealed disgusted moment, one tall blue and ashenhaired shard of glass in Thomas eyes making them sore, and Thomas is pretty thankful they aren't alone.

"As I said," The phone disappears. "Tight schedule. If you stay out, don't come back too late. And call me."

"As _I_ said, " Thomas gets up, holding the mug between his palms. "Not running off with her. You'd just miss us both. See you later."

And with a touch of his hand , sorting through one wild brownish strand standing up, pushing it back with some care, Maven moves away. Now Thomas is really left alone with Samson because he creeps up from his spot in the hallway, blocking the most obvious escape route right up between a way to Maven's room and Elaras office but not any farther. Thomas could flee to one of the other rooms, but he doesn't want to.

"How's it going?" Thomas tries to ask so chipper it hurts their ears."Threatened people yet for breakfast?"

Just as Elara was never too fazed with his mock and questions, Samson isn't either. He is just much more forward in his dislike. Thomas can appreciate open hatred, it is better than backstabbing, he supposes, even if it hurts. Casual hatred and dislike is always stinging a little like acidid ichor on bare skin, even if you are used to it. "You're a pathetic excuse and if it weren't for one very clear reason, you'd better not even try to look at me wrong."

"Or what? You push me down a staircase and hope I break my neck?" Thomas licks the sugar off his spoon and tries his best to stay composed. "Tough luck trying to murder me again now. Things have changed a bit."

The creepiest is Samson is just continuing to be his unimpressed vicious self.

"If I had tried to murder you that night at the party, I wouldn't have pushed you down stairs just like that. But I can promise, " He sneers at Thomas frowning face. "I'd have made sure you were very, very dead. And that it would've hurt. "

A shiver creeps up his spine. And Samson is clearly very much fine with him being just as clearly intimidated.

"I believe that easy somehow, ha."

"Glad you do. Be thankful you're some kind of pet for him and Iris Cygnet. It could be way worse. They've saved you from legal repercussions as much as social."

"It is called love and friendship, I don't suppose you know what it means. Merandus blood is like ice water, I have learned." And with that, Thomas finally chooses to squirrel away as quickly as possible, before Samson can change his mind about not hurting him in any way.

He is right though, even if Thomas doesn't want to admit it. Without Maven watching over himself in his self assigned cage and Iris keeping him company and being a generally smart and helpful eye to decide things and distract his head from the guilt of killing a friend, a father, a brother, a son, a good man, he would probably be going insane and locked up.

He can only guess what their relationship looks like from the outside. And he is still left in the open guessing what Iris and Maven truly think or feel for each other. But as long as they care for him, he can push that nagging thought aside as well.

And so he squirrels through the apartment some more, listens to more music, showers again way too long and extra cold in the end, shivers, continues, and finally decides to get dressed and gather his things to pick Iris up. His reflection is an image of pity, hair wet tips of brownish chaos, adapting to the chaos in his head. The circles under his eyes have engraved too, and his nose is as always since it was broken slightly bend, not making his ordinary face any better. He was always thin and lanky, and it shows now too. He is glad his hoodie is too big and conceals it a little bit.

The ride through town makes him mighty uncomfortable, even if it isn't that far. He takes a bus. He halfway expects some familiar face to pop up. He wants to. If he could choose, he would want nothing more than to see Cameron right now. But she has vanished, and he has cut contact after hurting and never apologizing to her.

Maybe that is for the best. He couldn't help anyone. He can't do anything. he tried to help her find her brother and what exactly has come out of it all?  
Riddled with a bad taste in his stomach and too loud music that he didn't choose on a pair of headphones that don't belong to him, he gets out and into the cold February air.  
No more snow, but clouds on the dark blue sky. The sun is hidden behind it in a way that makes you squint in the light outside easily.

Iris wears her coat open despite the weather. Her sleek dark hair is up.  
She smiles only slightly when he waves the last ten steps as if she hadn't seen him waltz along with his bag.

"Aren't you cold?" He asked the first time he realized she never wears gloves or anything else to remotely shield the winter cold except her coat.

"It isn't that bad." She just shrugged it off.

As soon as they walk inside and sit down she takes off the coat, wearing just some flimsy shirt that shows off the bragging rights of someone in exceptionally good shape and aware of their attractiveness. He catches a glimpse of her tattoos on her caramel skin and the muscles coiling along her arms. Some dude on a laptop next to them on a table stares at her, Iris doesn't bother to notice much.

"I need your opinion on something." He decides to start, and the caffeine circles through his blood as it already has the whole day, making him nervous and twitchy.

"I thought that was the reason you wanted to meet," she notes, takes one graceful sip and waits.

"No, not that, well that too, you are smart and good with art and shit." He takes a long breath. She watches very cautiously but without much impatience. On the outside, Thomas has learned, Iris Cygnet has a talent for coming across as so very calm. It was what attracted him in the first place after she talked to him a few times.

"If someone offered me...let's say, some money, wanting to buy my stuff, and I mean the Scarlet Guard stuff I drew and designed, would you say that is a genuine offer? It seems shady somehow."

"There are people buying everything."

"I am neither professional not offering. I mean.. I always wanted to. But I am not good enough. And it isn't like with my tattoos. That is a small and personal scale and will be until I maybe one day work at a parlor or something. That Guard designs are private now and were for some purpose earlier on."

"Someone seems to disagree," Iris remarks.

"Ah forget it." He sighs, bends down between the table and picks up his bag to get his laptop and the sketchbooks and folders out that are stuffed into the poor crying emotional baggage.

They spend some time sighting crazy raucous coal drawings he made late in the night, then moving on the all the things he has on his laptop.

„That one." Iris decides. „That is the best yet."

„Really?" He stares at the image on the screen inquisitive, narrowing his eyes a bit. The blurry half burned ruin of a tower thrones in dust and smoke over a desolate city with little fires burning.„Are you sure? I don't want to be political. The face behind bars is still up on some walls in the city and I hate that people know it was me and try to talk to me about it."

„But it is the best attempt of scenery you ever did. And the towers were so important for events in the city."

"Hm." He bites his lip. Moves on with the mouse hovering over another image and glossing over a half ready sketch.

Iris notices. "Is that me?"

He feared she'd notice.

"Yeah, it isn't done. Want to see?"

Water boils around Iris Cygnet's face in the half done sketch, cascading in artistic lines but also sharp abrupt edges around her face.  
"I always get hung up on people I like, you know it, seen the sketches," he tries to explain.

„I like your new color palette, you have improved." She states.

„You noticed?"

„Who wouldn't? The older ones have flowers and suns and soft shapes, transformative in faces and hands. They were warm in brown and yellow, sometimes red."

He stares only at her.

„Now it's blue and grey." He says. He feels blatantly easy to read. He always is, but this is visible proof of how much she has become this last month for him. „And sharper edges."


	42. Between Two Fires

_Maven_

The days hunt by in some feverish mood, made worse by the fact that so many faces he sees are too familiar.  
Words on his tongue are heavy as lead, especially if he has to acknowledge mistakes, that is always how it was.

Even if he doesn't take the twists and turns of his newfound tasks and Samson trying to break in and take the space his mother has left, he feels lost. He doesn't say it. To anyone. It wouldn't work. Who's willing to listen that doesn't know or can take care?

Strangely he was sure that if he removed her, got free somehow, he'd be better, just as people tell him.

He doesn't feel better.

It has been almost five weeks since he has last seen her, yelling at his back in some form of mad desperation. In retrospect, the memory doesn't give him satisfaction, especially since he has agreed to visit her today.

 _You don't feel better because there is nothing to feel better. This is just what you are._

 _You're never satisfied, are you?  
_

"Do you stay here today? " Is all Thomas asks when Maven finds his form hidden under blanket and headphones. The room has changed drastically. It seems fuller, as it often is when his messy boyfriend makes the mismatched attempt to fill something with colors and life. Maven watches him spread all over the blank walls and neatly sorted things.

The chaos expressed through paper sent flying and pencils carelessly lying around is probably the closest they get to know the mindset of the other. Thomas occupies space, Maven lets him.

 _We distract each other from what hurts us._

It is a bubble, silent and safe, with too much left unsaid. And he is not very good at offering comfort most days. He is used to taking it.

 ** _Take what you want, and keep it, Maven. Or finally, find a way to let go._**

"My brother will be over again, just so you know. And after that-" He doesn't finish the sentence and feels his shoulders draw up, stiff muscles and tight circuit of buzzing thoughts. He corrects that as soon as he notices.

On another day Thomas would see through the lies easy. Now not so much.

Some truths should be kept for a while until the time is ripe to say them and undo the knots. All that would happen is a type of insult with the demand to not go.

Thomas sniffs. Gives him a long look. "You fighting again? "

"We don't fight, Thomas, we compromise." He thinks about the way they act towards each other, with the same anger and spite. Exhales a long breath of air. "Mostly."

Thomas blinks out of deadshot eyes with red veins creeping through. "But Samson's not going to be here, right?"

"No. I'd wager Jacos is here though."

Thomas nods and returns to whatever he listens to, fingers moving unsteady, gripping onto the headphones.

He is mentally prepared for two people instead of simply one by now. It isn't like anyone trusts him, and he doesn't trust them back.

 _I was sure you would turn around again,_ his brother says the first time they meet again after the news declare the arrest of Elara Merandus.

 _Too late for that,_ is all he answered.

People seem to misunderstand his intentions. As if he would drop on one knee and beg for forgiveness no one is ever willing to give anyway, and as if that would change a thing.

He lies himself into being fine with this most days. Now, that he opens the door and tries to look at disinterested as possible, he is clearly not fine.

His brother looks worn down. One could think now that Maven has helped to give him at least some crumbs of his heritage back, just enough for him to leave him alone (which he doesn't thanks to his uncle) he would at least shave. He has a stubble on his chin now.

He doesn't spare a glance at the older man. The dislike of being close to each other is very mutual.

Maven just takes a step back before turning away, waiting for them to be decent guests and just close the door and follow up. Intruders in the bubble are always unwelcome, but they are necessary to move on.

He doesn't bat an eye even though something boils in his stomach. "I didn't bring Samson or a lawyer along this time, so just me and my brother."

For once Cal is smart enough not to discuss something. "Where is Thomas?" he asks instead.

"Around," is what Maven says.  
 _Probably locking himself in as soon as he heard the doorbell_ , he thinks but is positively surprised to find he has a shadow in grey, lurking around in the space. "It's my brother, as mentioned. Want to say hello?"

 _Make sure people see you, so they don't think I have chained you to a pipe._

After running off and hiding the last times or clinging too much to Iris (which is strong to his dislike, because he does not like sharing in the first place, and he does not like sharing Thomas with Iris even more) seeing Thomas actually at least staying in sight is new.

Thomas seems to shrink under his brother's eyes.

Maven just watches silently, hands folded together tightly.

"Hello." It sounds listless. Maven doesn't blame him. "Been a while since I saw you around, Mr. Jacos. Got a minute?"  
"Hello," Cals uncle answers. "good to see you too, Thomas."

Maven feels like his skeleton wants to crawl out of his skin. "Let us get this over it. It's just paperwork this time."

Walking alongside his brother feels weird and not like it used to. He is also very much used to walk behind him in line, so taking the lead now and making him follow is not as unappreciated.

They usually don't attempt to talk about personal matters. It rarely works out. They explode in each other's faces too often. Today seems to be no different. "He looks horrible," Cal mutters, throwing one last look back to where Thomas is unfortunately left with Julian Jacos.

Something always is a bit appalling when Cal tries to stick his head in their relationship. Even when he did have some gratuitous intentions last year, it just never sat right. Perhaps that is just the small black scorch of anger and jealousy in his throat that always lets everything taste burned. "He is going to be fine."

"Are you happy to keep him here?"

He doesn't usually deem that deserving of an answer. But this time his brother sounds almost wondering. Maybe it does deserve some kind of answer. The appropriate, open answer would be easy. It is blatantly obvious after all:

He almost got killed and has been locked in twice last year. Of course, he is happy to have him stay in.

 _Keep something you love._  
 _Hold it in your hand._

 ** _It will break._**

Maybe, if you lock it in, if you preserve it, if you care for it like a delicate flower, it will grow this time, and not shatter. And perhaps that is also for the best. If he isn't around to care, the poor impulse control of Thomas lets him do very foolish things, and he has poor judgment. As proven in the latest escalation that has remodeled almost every dynamic he has witnessed grow and fall in the last months. So staying in means no trouble. It means that the vulnerability won't overthrow him. It means to shut the world out, and they work best just between the two of them.  
The words that leave his mouth are something else. Because he knows how to push and poke and work, and he is foul and unwilling to be friendly. His nerves are already blanking and panicking at the next scheduled appointment he has to partake in, a meeting of another kind altogether, and it runs all along the strings of his mind with force to cut them.

Now, this whole thing they are doing for _weeks_ is the opportunity to just come clean again. If there is even something left to be clean. As far as he is concerned the anger is far too high, scorching whatever was still standing in between them.  
Some nights he wishes it was different. This is not a night like those.  
"I'm sure it's hard to believe a person that loves me actually listens to my concerns about their well being."

"If you are concerned about his well being then take care of him. You were always bad at that."

"I am not in the mood for brotherly advice."He feels grey anger and fear gripping him again, something that always broods in the back of his head. " But speaking about taking care of things we love. How is Mare, by the way, since she is free to go wherever she pleases?"

He shouldn't have asked that. And they both know it. It is like clinging to the edge, gripping to it, but they both know the foundation of that edge is a crumbling mess.

A responsible thing to do? To talk? No. No, it isn't. And there is no right thing left to do either. There never seems to be a way that keeps them both at the edge of the cliff. One will fall soon enough.

It is the same with his mother. Or maybe worse.

* * *

With her hair pulled back tightly, without any way to cover up the small wrinkles around her blue eyes, and the grey a little more prominent in all her self, she looks old. There is no other way to say it. The color and the prison attire itself are also not flattering her, but perhaps that is because he knows this woman only in an impeccable state.

She isn't broken or defeated, though. She actually looks concerningly content on her chair. Her eyes rake over his crimson coat and his too long hair. He knows she sees more than he does, dissecting every twitch, every little move.

He doesn't know why he is here.

Or maybe, he does. But he is not able to form it as a concurrent statement.

At least he finds the courtesy to ask her an easy question. It is only half polite, with something stinging in it.

Looking around the small room they only have for themselves as an illusion, with watchful eyes everywhere, he folds his hands on the cold metal table.

"How do people treat you? How is your new life in a cell?" _How is it to be locked in, told what to do, when to do it, and never be left alone?_

"Fine, actually." She looks at her short but clean nails. No more rings and manicure. "I have it mostly comfortable, though the food could be better. But I will be here for less than a month from now, so you will need to make some space in my office again, dear son."

Of course she'd know. She left instructions and lawyers and Samson.

"Samson gives me updates." She confirms. "It is rather refreshing hearing you have to deal with your life alone now."

He blows out some air stuck in his throat, forces his body to keep posture. "After you yelled at me the last time we met, I was sure you'd hurl accusations at me now."

Her brows draw together, one knitted brow in unhealthy white light dangling above their heads.

"I could be terribly mad you sold me for a red boy. But I told you before, you are my only son. You outmaneuvered me."

She hates to admit that. He knows. A perfectionist letting slip control? Terrible.  
He sits very silent on the other side of the table and looks at it, a ray of neon light gets caught on the metal, a sleek surface of grey dull steel clean.

"I did this one time, even if you said I was sloppy."

"Hm." She almost looks amused."Execution lacked, but it is the results that matter. So, well done, Maven."

Praise for getting her under lock and key.

He forgot this warped system of reward and failure they practice.

Some part of himself even warms himself on the praise, more than the satisfaction to see her locked up.

He is, after all, just what she made him.

A truth standing tall between them. Just like the shadow of his father stands between him and his brother.

"I don't need your approval." He tells himself and her.

There is two bits of himself consuming each other.

Elara Merandus just watches in her prison garb, but she seems so relaxed and comfortable as if she just walked out of a spa.

And as always, she can read the thoughts off from his nose, even if he tries so hard to hide them.

"You're trying to convince people you have changed?" Her voice rings almost amused in the space between them. "You got rid of me and it just proves we are still one and the same."

And then she smiles. It's the smile reserved for triumphs, for salves of words that hit like needles, hitting and piercing through the skin. "In the end, you did come to visit me, didn't you?"


	43. Am I?

_Thomas_

"Thomas," Shade's voice says on the voice mail for the millionth time. It flows through the headphones and seeps into his ears. It works through his hazy thoughts and will never leave him alone. "You're probably at work. Just so you know, moving again. And maybe we'll not be around the next time."

He was angry and sad when he listened to it the first time. Now it has transformed into the feeling of dread and something numb.

"Don't get your ass in trouble the next weeks. It'll probably get rough. And you finally got your life back on track."

 _He wanted me to have a normal life. And what did I give him back for all he did for me?_

A gun, a shot, a shitfest of grief and the loss of life with little blood despite the hole a bullet has ripped into skin.

A cracking sound and a very familiar female voice interrupt whatever else there might be still left to say.

"Diana says you better don't do the Thomas maneuver."

Thomas forces himself to listen.

"Keep an eye on everything for me, okay?"

 **"To delete message press 1."** The robotic voice explains. **"To repeat message press 2."**

His hand hovers over the keys. He presses 2.

"Thomas;" Shade's voice says again. "You're probably at work."

He sits silently on the bed, wrapped in a red and black blanket, and stares at the wall.

Later, when his phone has gone silent, he still sits on the bed with headphones silent but still in place, as if they block out the world even though they can't and won't.  
Maven finds him like that. As always, he moves very careful around him, as if not to disturb his staring. One look, one small touch.

The doorbell rings like the bells that toll in the doomsday, and hiding away is tempting.

He usually does not talk to Cal or his uncle at all. But what would he do otherwise? He'll only return to the voice mail. And so he doesn't run off and just sits down on the couch. And he could at least try to be useful to Maven. He knows every time Cal's uncle is around he wants to bolt.

"Hello." He says even though he doesn't feel like talking. "Been a while since I saw you around, Mr Jacos. Got a minute?"  
"Hello," Cals uncle answers. "Good to see you too, Thomas."

Bought a moment of time alone with someone else than Maven or Iris, that is something new again after the last month.

"Do you know...how Li-Mare is doing?" Thomas, shitty friend and useless person asks. The pair of brown eyes behind glasses study him. "Cal's..is she still his girlfriend?" He asks even though he doesn't know why. "Or a girl called Cameron? Have you seen her? She's fifteen and pissy, sure you'd remember meeting her."

"I know Cameron." He says and that's something at least.  
Thomas leans a bit forward on his place by the couch.

"Does she have a place to stay?"

"She does. And she gradually gets on people's nerves."  
It is some dry statement. His mother used to use it on him too. Older people being exasperated by the energy younger people can put in their efforts to being annoying.  
Thomas huffs out an amused breath. That does sound like her.

"I know you'll try to ask about Diana Farley too, Thomas. But you should talk to her yourself. "

"And tell her what? " Thomas asks. Speaking about it feels like the words are hot quicksilver burning his mouth and throat. But they are true."I am sorry I got the father of her child killed? Same for Mare. She lost a brother."

"You think they are better off without you."

Not a question. And he is absolutely right of course.

"I don't know you well," Julian Jacos concludes when Thomas doesn't say anything."But after everything I have heard you are a compassionate and loyal young man."

 _Am I?_ Thomas can't say. He feels like the world caves around him most days.

"And Cameron is always quick to defend you."

That's a surprise. After all this time passed he was sure she'd not anymore.

"I can't ask for anything from them. Not forgiveness or shit."

He should not be talking about this least of all people with someone he barely knows.

"It's up to you to just say anything at all and them to give you an answer. Otherwise nothing much changes."

Thomas stares without seeing much behind a blurry filter of panic. Julian Jacos stares back but doesn't say a word. He doesn't even need to. Thomas breaks eye contact first.

And then, it seems, this conversation is over and as fast as he can, Thomas retreats to lick invisible wounds, waiting for some sort of fight to break loose between the brothers.

* * *

 _Hey, you haven't answered my last messages. That's okay._  
He writes. Deletes it.

 _Cap, can we meet?_

He deletes that one too.

 _I killed Shade. You can blame me for that. You didn't give me that gun to fling it around. I panicked. Is that the Thomas maneuver? Panicking and overreacting?_

He doesn't send it.

The same with messages to Cameron and one long pity party to Mare.

Say anything at all is harder than it seems.

He leaves the laptop on, simply standing. Maven isn't home. No one even cares what he does.

He rolls together in their bed, putting a dark blanket over himself and doesn't move.

He could probably just stay here, in this cocoon and never come out. The blanket over his head just doesn't stop the thoughts.

It hasn't been like this since forever. It is almost like a physical impairment.

He shivers through the bundle of fabric surrounding him and just lies very silent for the rest of the day.

It is the running water that alarms him of the existence of any kind of life in the apartment.

It rushes along with Thomas heart still pounding in his chest.

When he moves to the bathroom, the air is filled with steam.

Maven sits very silent in what Thomas assumes is very hot water, not showing any sign of discomfort. He could seem almost relaxed, eyes closed, but the curve of his mouth betrays him, one cruel, distressed line. There's a neatly folded pile of clothes with some glittering silver bracelets on top.

Thomas isn't Mavens consciousness even if he tried plenty of times to make him that in the past and Maven is far from being Thomas moral instance. But maybe that's just fine right now. At least Maven does not judge him for his mistakes as of now. He doesn't mention any fight between them, doesn't blame fault on him and never brings up anything about Thomas old friends. It is a barrier of smoke and blissful ignorance. They live together in some microcosm of unmentionables, and they feed off it.

"Hey," he just whispers, and water splashes when Maven opens his blue eyes and turns. "You want to be alone? "

"No." He turns the water off. "It is fine. There's room if you want to come in." A gracious offer, but one Thomas declines with a shake of his head.

He sits down on the edge, rolling up his too long sleeves, and his hands dip in one slow move. It is really hot and Thomas is content with his fingers retreating and drawing a pattern over Mavens naked shoulder over the water instead.

"I don't know what to do," Thomas mutters.

"Stay." Is the only answer he receives. He's not sure if it sounds like a plea, a demand, or an offer. There is a hand accompanying the words, stroking over the soft inside of his lower arm once. "Stay and I'll keep you safe."

"What is happening, Maven?" Thomas can barely sit upright under the inner pressure and the thoughts buckling.

"Outside? Or with you?" A question to determine how deep down Thomas is going right now, he supposes. Maybe just because he genuinely doesn't know what to say.

"I don't know." If Thomas could cry, he probably would. "I'm so fucking lost. I try to get better. I can't handle it alone."

"You still have me."

He says that as if he needs to convince himself too of that as if that simple truth is both the best and the worst thing. Because yes, things change all the time and nothing more is unappreciated than all the change sweeping lives.

"True. I have you." His hands glide over smooth skin and tension between shoulder blades that rises and vanishes under his fingertips. Maven looks more his age relaxed, sleeping or like this, body seemingly appreciative for the back rub. Who doesn't like that? Even the king of complicated matters and backpaddling can't resist it.  
Thomas just keeps his hands gently moving over his back.

"You are going to be fine," he finally answers.

"Am I?" He thinks of himself just sitting in silence at a window or in front of a screen until his eyes hurt too much. His hands stop rubbing over the pale smooth skin under his fingertips. "I was never really good at coping, was I?"

Mavens fingers reach out again to touch his hand on his shoulder. "We have that in common."

Thomas lets out a mirthless, shattered piece of laughter. Now he really wishes he could just cry. Let it all out, a flock of birds scrambling, flying away. "Maybe I should go to therapy too."

Maven only shrugs slightly.

Thomas pulls back his hands. "Make some room, and I swear if I get cooked just because you like you water the temperature of a volcano, I will be pissed."

There are slender fingers welcoming his body when he pushes the too big sweater over his head and steps out of the rest of his clothes. The thoughts won't leave him alone. Maybe he should say something. Maybe he will. Maybe he won't. Thomas is a coward after all, running and hiding is what he always does.


	44. What you want

_Thomas_

Chin stuck behind his blue scarf, hands clawing at the pockets of his hoodie, he wades through the morning air. It seems to stick to him, twirling through his hair and mocking his galloping heartbeat.

The breeze of lukewarm wind knocks the breath out of him and makes him stutter in his tracks. They fight him just like his own thoughts.

Sweat has formed on his neck and brow, and the closer he gets away from the apartment, the more profusely he sweats. As if every step is too much and futile.

Maybe it is. He isn't sure it is the best decision to just go in for whatever this bus ride will bring.

He still does. As always when he brings himself to make the trip outside the safety of his blankets, he wishes that Cameron would just pop into existence out of nowhere.

It isn't as if he hasn't spent the last week pondering and looking, lurking almost. He would just need to drop by her doorstep. He knows where she is now. He could apologize. Hug her. And be done.

And he wants to. Maybe he will. After whatever this trip will bring, who knows. It is like some inner resistance hindering his breath and steps. Just like the water his boyfriend likes to smolder in is too hot, something in him feels too cold.

Greenery springs to life slowly around him. All he can see from his window in the bus is the remains of something he helped destroy in too many ways as he lounges in the worn-out seat. Legs crossed, one dirty sole of a boot leaves a muddy print filled with crumbs of dirt and other remains of the asphalt.

Over there, a thrown over trash can, littering the street, just like in the night he sat with Mare in the rain. That park where he had that silly snowball fight with Maven.

In the distance, riding monochrome heights of towers. Like the ones that exploded. Or the ones he worked in. With his sister, that is still not free. And don't forget the time he almost got murdered getting pushed down too sharp stairs.

The people in the bus barely glare and take notice when he lets out a loud stream of air slumped in his seat. Thomas just slouches on the seat, waiting for the wheels to stop turning at the right spot to get out.

 _Street rat Thomas_ always found his way to Diana Farley's doorstep.

Inevitably, almost.

The difference, however, is that the street rat could always count on her to let him in.

He'd just knock and wait. Who cared she wasn't from around town? He never asked. And she didn't ask how he came to be the way he was.

She'd let him in with one long glare or just a simple side look. But she always saw him, and that was worth something.

He'd just creep lazily and tired through her small apartment, maybe talking to anyone around. She would listen to his complaints and bad jokes. She'd endure and give him a piece of backhanded advice because he was being a complete idiot. He could count on her to be strong and reliant in just her presence, taking something from the fear of being murdered in the middle of the night off.

He was never good or enough for any cause or aim at injustice. He was some kind of symptom for apathy and uselessness. But that was alright for her. It was alright for everyone. They just took him in, and because he was weak, they left it alone.

Now Thomas can't rely on being let in, because all left is pain and resentment.

His legs buckle and his stomach gurgles when he makes his way out of the bus and down the road.

He was sure she would just leave town. If he was her, he would have.

The houses are neater and a lot more clean than their old places. Yellow and orange, bricks and mortar, a little dusty perhaps, but definitely in good shape.

He looks down at his phone. Back at the road. The world gets drowned by the senseless stirring of a drumbeat in his ears, the music he doesn't even care for, but still somehow needs as of now. Say about Maven what you will, he doesn't have that bad of a taste when it comes to music and other art stuff. Else Thomas would probably never have gotten at him in the first place if that wasn't the case. Always believing in some strange potential because he scribbled a tree on a flyer in a counseling group.

Months suddenly seem ages ago. Just like the memory of street rat Thomas crawling to Diana Farley's doorstep or talking shit to Tristan, who was never his friend, but is dead even longer than Shade.

Weird.

So many dead people already.

He adjusts the borrowed headphones, turns the volume up.

It's a neat little trick, drowning the world out, like some real-life block and filter. Both of them probably wouldn't survive as of now without some blocks and tricks.

Thomas stares at his feet and the road as he walks. He doesn't even care to take the sidewalk, straight moving over the street, like some ship that has lost the fairway.

He doesn't knock at the house she supposedly lives in now.

Cal's uncle told him probably nothing would change if he didn't do something.

Well, he can't do more.

With a huff he just sits down by the sidewalk, eyes on the wooden door and gleaming worn out doorknob. There is no plants or decoration. It is just a door. Just a house.

Maybe she isn't even at home.

Some part of him hopes for that.

He watches the sun rising, loosing a soft pink touch and hiding behind clouds again.

In between just sitting and listening to loud music he considers sneaking a glance up the window. In the end, he doesn't. He can't move any closer, not past the barrier he pulls up for himself in fear of losing it.

After three hours sitting on the stone, watching occasional people with dogs, bags, or simply cars rushing by, he decides to leave.

He half expects her to pop up at the moment he leaves. But there is no one. No one holding him back. No one hurling accusations at him. And that is to be expected because she walked away and he knows she has the right to do just that.

He doesn't just march straight back. It whirls and pokes in his body and brain too much.

Instead, he makes his way through the city on foot. He hasn't done that in weeks. And now his feet just fly over the ground.

It helps to know the different ways to sneak through, all the nights out have that advantage at least, and it helps he has papers and no one is trying to take him down. He looks done with the world, but he is clean and doesn't wear any ragged clothes, just one more messy red person on the way from or to work or whatever.

A face behind bars mocks him from one high ceiling. The colors are flaked and peel off, some parts are half overpainted, and a poster is sticking over one of the figure's eyes.

His feet ponder and stop. He takes off the headphones. The music blares up around his neck until he pushes a button and it stops, leaving only the rushing of a bus and cars behind, clinking steps and the lights of the traffic reflecting in glass. He gives it one more look, nose wrinkled.

The next time he stops, it is because of the flickering of a screen.

He can barely read the news scrolling down on the bottom.

Just stares at it with blind eyes blinking.

Funny how his body keeps moving. He doesn't even have anywhere to be.

His phone beeps him out of his apathy with a sneering, annoying buzz.

 _Pretty Boy:_

 _Where are you? Why aren't you answering your phone?_

He scrolls down, fingers a little numb somehow, answering slow. Even the small act of concentrating on writing a message is almost too much.

 _Coming back later. I'm ok._

His phone shows the word 'Cameron' over the letters when he starts to type with a C. Thomas bites his lip.

He sends the message and scrolls up, through the list of names and stops.

It beeps once. Twice. Then she picks up.

"Hey," He says, voice cracking like the graffiti concealed and the paint peeling off walls. "You got plans or want to hang out?"

"Are you at your and Maven's place?" Iris asks.

"Nah, I am outside."

Something like a glass clinks in the background, maybe dishes. Ruminating sounds of a bigger crowd. Maybe a restaurant. "I can't right now. Maybe we can meet up later?"

"Sure. We can watch a movie or stuff." He feels hot disappointment in his belly. But everyone has their own life, he can't expect them to drop everything when he calls cause he feels lonely.

"Did you clean up since the last time?"

"Yes?" He huffs at the critical way her voice sounds. "It was just laundry, Iris."

"It was not just laundry."She contradicts his defense. "It was nuclear waste. The whole kitchen smelled horrifying."

He tries to give his voice a lighter tone.

"You sound like Maven now. _Thomas, pancakes are not healthy dinner, Thomas, have you set something on fire, Thomas, why does it still look alive in the pan._ Pff. _"  
_

"Have you set it on fire?" She asks, and he can hear a small smile in her voice that makes him feel slightly better.

"Not this week. I leave fire hazards and safety measures to Maven now." He swallows on some choking, half bitter, half amused breath. "Listen, you call me when you are done. I will just wait for you in front of the building, I guess. Pick you up. My boyfriend changed codes again, so you wouldn't get in."

"I will see you later then, Thomas."

* * *

The glass doors slide open slowly, almost drowsy. The air is still lukewarm and smells of early spring.

There is a guy lounging around. It is like this most days, and that is why Thomas is glad he never needs to take care of it.

"You're the Red living here," The Guy says, coat slightly open, phone in his hand shiny silvery. "Thomas-"

"Yeah and because I live here, I tell you to just leave. People not gonna like anyone trying to snoop around."

"Have something to hide?" The man asks.

Thomas sniffs, scratches his nose, tries to hide the ruins of his emotions. "Know a tall blond guy named Merandus?"

"He was here yesterday and told me he'd make my life hell if I returned. "

"He'll just eat you alive when he sees you," Thomas promises. "Not sure he lives on anything but human blood." Thomas narrows his eyes at his own thought process. "Ohh, like a vampire. Hah. Why didn't I think about this earlier?"

The guy looks confused, eyebrows knitting. Thomas doesn't blame him.

He just doesn't let go as easy. Thomas wants to put his headphones up and simply ignore him.

"Is it true Mrs. Merandus will be set free in less than four weeks? And that her son is responsible for all of this?"

"Nope," Thomas tries again, palms stretched out in surrender between them, not answering.

The questions are steamrolling now. "And can you confirm your association with a group called the Scarlet Guard? A girl named Mare Barrow? Her allegations have been dropped recently, but rumors say-"

"Pal, people try all the time." Thomas sighs. "I ain't talking about any of them. I am just waiting for a friend, so you should bugger off before anyone sees you."

"A friend or your boyfriend?" A tilted head and all the questions as fast as a rapid-fire cannon. "He is your boyfriend, right? You don't make much secrecy out of your sexual preferences."

Thomas gives up. He pulls his hands back and swipes over his nose with the back of his hand one last time. "Why? Would you date me if I was single? I like any kind of food except if there's shellfish or seafood involved."

The guy doesn't react to that. "Did you know he visits his mother in prison?"

Thomas freezes, mouth pressing together tightly. "I am pretty sure there is a good reason for that. He kinda has all the responsibility right now."

"That must be hard, barely adult, lost his father, a terrible scandal involving human rights and what about his brother?"

Thomas looks at the dirty tips of his shoes, takes a few steps away. "Not sure what you want. Don't care. Leave us all alone."

Iris Cygnet is his lifeline. As soon as she appears, he just decides to fly the ten steps to her. He clings to her arm with force. Her body is warm through the jacket, muscles tense.

She tries to assess the situation.

"Is this man bothering you?" She asks. Her eyes are storming, head held high. Something in her face is pretty sure at telling him she could destroy the guy if he let her.

"Can we just go inside?" Thomas asks. "Please. I just want..."

He stops. Can't finish.

To his surprise, she doesn't disagree. They leave the questions behind. Iris' eyes are good at acting as if the guy doesn't even exist.

As soon as the elevator has swallowed them, Thomas wants to crumble. "How long will this keep going?"

"Until it's over." She answers. "Maybe longer."

When will it be over? He wants to ask but doesn't.

First, he drags over most of his blankets and pillows from the bed and places them everywhere on the sterile furniture and couch.

Then he just sprawls over half them and her legs when they watch a movie. She lets him. Sometimes, you can feel an echo if you do things you used to love to do with other people again, starting new but never really.

It is almost the same now. At least with Iris, it is easy to ignore the echo.

"Hah," Thomas makes at the swelling of music. "Told you, there is our bad guy."

"He has a sinister music theme, that is not hard to figure out," Iris says, dark long curtain of hair falling into her face.

Thomas wiggles his toes, leaning against her shoulder. "If only that was a feature in real life. Imagine walking down a street and the music tells you-you'll be chased or there will be something bad happening."

"You're strange sometimes." She only answers, letting his head rest against her tickling her and half exposed shoulder along the edge of her shirt. "You could have just let me handle the reporter."

"No." He mutters. "No, I know you could just destroy his life. But let puppy kicking, bloodsucking Samson handle that tomorrow. This doesn't need to be on you."

She makes a low sound that almost sounds like disgust.

Good to know she doesn't like him either.

They continue for a while, blinking screen, food, and light talk about nonsense. It is mostly him talking, telling stupid jokes and making comments.

The door opens and closes almost soundless, and the faintest tapping of shoes in the evening announce the other occupant of this place.

Something sour rises in Thomas' throat at the sight of Maven, dark hair tangled, splotches of gray on his cheeks.

 _Did you know he visits his mother in prison?_

Instead of stating that, he just gives up his place on Iris shoulder and leaps up. "Right for the next movie and annoying me with trivia about stupid science."

Iris and Maven give each other a long look in the flickering half light that breaks up from the screen.

"I thought we would be alone," Maven says, slipping out of his dark jacket.

"You can share me," Thomas gives him a small kiss on the tip of his nose. "I told you I don't run off with her."

He thought he could just steal something small and back off for now. He is surprised by the fingers holding onto a handful of his hoodie. "Where were you today?"

"Tell you later, okay?" Thomas tries to smile. Grimaces. His hands gently lie over the sharp cheekbones of Maven's face. "I just want to have a nice evening. With people I like. And don't worry."

He still doesn't forget. Even though he kisses Maven and it is soft and warm and should be good with the way Maven kisses him back a moment.

* * *

 ** _[I am sorry for the long Hiatus, as you mayyy have noticed I am super busy working on rewriting this and writing another kind of story. STILL I will try get to it again, even if this is a mess and I was stupid to complicate plot so much. Thank you for the lovely guest review. It means soo much to me you still keep on checking.]_**


	45. Stray

_Cameron_

The aftermath of the burial is like a crater left by a meteor.

Days are weeks, and hours are seconds, and the impact has changed the surface on which people walk.

She is a wanderer for the weeks to come.

She moves from doorstep to doorstep to see faces she knows or some she doesn't. Half the people she knows are either dead, on the run, arrested, or they have dropped her to never talk again. So no real pleasure being associated with them.

It isn't anything new. She has been on the run, she has been homeless and swatting in abandoned ruins and tunnels, train stations or stairways.

It's her first spring in the city. The inner parts are standing tall, streamlining proud and unrelenting reflections on glass and mirrors. She can see the edges of a few patches of grass. It's a strange stroll through the districts, hiding between dumpsters, almost in paranoia, or simply strolling along with the hood deep in her face.

The scenery always changes drastically, the farther you are from the pulsing silver buildings the dirtier it gets.

It rains, and the small patches and air smell fresh, despite the trash the water rinses over the gutters of the sideway.

Her hand knocks loud once, twice, three times.

"Hey, Cam." The syllables are familiar. The face belonging to it is too.

In contrast to her soaked form, Kilorn looks better dry and not half as dirty.

"Hey." She sighs, pulling the water off with the zip of her jacket and the shake of her braided dark hair.

The water flows down the glass, running along with the window like long streaks.

The table is small and crowded and everything crumbles and breaks down in the tiny space. They are cramped besides the window, the only natural light source.

Kilorn's eyes still stumble over silently the longer words on the pages. He sometimes still pretends he knows what he looks at even if he has trouble reading it. She usually slaps him for it.

Right now, she doesn't want to slap anyone, though. She just moves her head back and stares at the ceiling, neck cracking a second.

There is a pair of green eyes staring at her.

"What?" She asks.

"You look tired," Kilorn says.

"Who isn't tired," she answers.

One side of his mouth tugs up a second when he wathes her.

"Thanks for helping me."

Cameron shrugs it off. For a while they just sit silently, like they used to do when they were awake in the nights in the crooked house, worrying or just not able to stop the thinking.

She leans her head against his shoulder. Just a second. Eyes half-closed. His hair tickles her nose when he moves.

Just a second. Just taking a breath.

Barrow comes around too. It isn't like they have much to tell to each other.

Not after Cameron has been branded for standing her ground on Thomas' side. Funny , really. That they all don't talk about the important things. They just swallow it and move on.

They give each other some look, some stale words that mean nothing, just because they both are in the same room and end up being in the same vicinity.

"You're free to go wherever," is all Cameron can say that is positive. _Toad held word. All free to go. He gave you an out of jail card_. "That is something, right."

"Right," Mare mutters.

When they both know it doesn't really mean that much.

And then she is already wandering off again. Floating somewhere else.

Farley keeps her head up and her hands busy. She doesn't stop, steamrolling over every task she can find. Everyone grieves their way. She supposes there is nothing bad about that, and she as sure won't judge anyone.  
Cameron drops by and watches her too for a while.

Busy and like some enourmous creature with that growing belly, scribbling on some paper, or talking on her phone.

Cameron just lurches in the corner and waits before she can speak.

"You talked to Thomas?"

The pen stops on the paper and almost buries and breaks on it before Farley puts it down and clenches her jaw.

"No."She focuses on a point above Cameron's head, then decides to look back at her face. "His mother called and said Hannah's going to stay in prison for at least a month or longer, depending. And that they wanted to make a deal about whatever she has been doing in the past. But she didn't take it."

Cameron opens her mouth. Decides not to say anything and leaves it at a low disgruntled sound.

"Don't give me a stink eye, Cameron," Farley says. "Especially when you aren't any better."

"I ain't better, never said that." Cameron huffs out a defiant puff of air.

* * *

A ripped paper flutters in the wind that still drowns the street in the smell of spring water.

The paper is stapled to a grey, barely blooming tree at the side of the road. It's bleached and bled out of ink.

 ** _MISSING_** rakes on the top in big letters. These block letters are the only words left.

Beneath, where the square of the image, the face of the missing loved one, is supposed to be, there is nothing left but the edge of a head, undefined and faceless.

Missing, Cameron reads, word repeating in her head when she walks by the tree and ripped off the paper.

Missing for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe in prison. Maybe home. Maybe never found.

She waits for two dark cars to rush over the asphalt. A traffic light turns green.

Pulls out her phone. No new message. No missed calls.

Pulling inside the hallway of the house and using a front door is strange, every time because hiding is so prominent. It's a nice house, relatively.

Sara Skonos shirt is slightly crinkled and a coat lies over the armrest, probably a long shift in the hospital that has ended barely hours ago.

She turns off the TV when Cameron walks in. Her hand frantically pushes a single button.

But too late not to see the fat brackets at the bottom of the screen, and a familiar by now a clip of a blond-haired woman and glaring eyes surrounding her in suits.

Social death didn't carry on too long, just as a prison.

Same charges dropped, same investigations ongoing, still going to be set free soon.

There is a shadow on Sara's face, wrinkled eyes, and tightly shut mouth.

She doesn't say anything when Cameron sits down on the edge furthest from her.

The silence stretches.

"Thought I'd see Julian here," she mutters. Looks around, eyes scanning the furniture and room.

"We had breakfast, but he had obligations. You didn't show up yesterday," Sara says. She doesn't sound angry, and that is sometimes weird because usually at least someone seems to be pissy at Cameron and she is glad to return the favor.

Now Cameron just shrugs. It isn't Sara's fault. Or Nanny's. Or anyone that spends time with her. They try to care. Provided Cameron lets them. She can take care of herself just fine.

"I left you a message. Went to Nanny first, had to help out with paperwork for Kilorn after that."

"Any news from your brother?"

"You'd know," Cameron just spits out and takes a breath that fills her lungs with mild, fresh air seeping through.

As one of the only responsible adults caring, she adds but doesn't say.

 _I'm sorry, Cameron,_ Sara's eyes say when her mouth doesn't.

Cameron makes a low sound and turns away, crossing her arms over the ripped and broken sleeves of her shirt. A hole big enough to hook a thumb through.

Thinking about her helplessness and her family always leaves a fresh trail of anger and frustration.

Nowhere to go, nowhere to stay. Loosing one, then another, until it is silly to assume anything is permanent.

Nanny's place is trashed and abandoned, broken, and Thomas has shushed her away as if she is a cat he has thrown stones at.

 _Get your life together. You are worse than all the others. You are fifteen, orphaned, homeless and treat people like shit._

Not like he is wrong. She never claimed to be a nice and perfect person.

Sara knows better by now than to try and pressure Cameron into more answers when all she has to do is wait. Nanny has probably shared all the news and observations anyway since yesterday.

"I need to sleep. I had a long night and need to meet with Diana later." She stands up, pushes a strand of blond hair back. "You know where you can sleep and where the food is."

Cameron sits on the couch for a few minutes. Stands up. Sits down again. Hugs herself tightly. Stares at her phone again.

The digital clock moves low and has no real meaning. In the other room, there are shuffling rooms and then silence again.

She falls asleep on the couch, feet in boots hanging over the edge, jacket half-open but still on, braid pressing on her neck and cheek.

She can't even remember the dreams. It's like a blurred and tired image of the world around her, but it doesn't really matter. A shrill beep wakes her up. Her phone rings. Eyes blinking heavy and dry, the number isn't any she knows.

"Hello?" She mutters, tongue glued to the back of her throat.

"Cameron?"

With another blink, the voice wakes her up immediately. It makes her jolt, sends a rush of blood through her veins, makes her heart pump hard and fast.

"Cameron?" Her brother's voice repeats in a hollow mechanical echo and a small chatter in the background. His voice sounds like a stranger and as a part of herself at the same time.


	46. Stand By

_Cameron_

The first call is incoherent babbling and a rush. Not too much time.

Too little time and too much to say. Too much to think. And too much to miss.

And the worst thing about it is not the static rushing. Or the sounds in the background. Or the fact that she clenches the phone so tightly in her hand it may get crushed. The worst is how he sounds.

A question about treatment is out, who'd give an honest answer. No, it isn't even that. Something inside his voice shakes and wavers. Like he isn't sure it is her on the other end.

Nothing smiles. Nothing eases up.

"I can call again in two days," he mutters at the end.

She spends two nights contemplating oh how to progress. Who to tell.

She curls together inside Sara's home. Listens to the sounds of a hectic breakfast, so early in the morning it is still dark outside. Two voices mumbling and talking. Not stopping until a door opens and shuts and keys jingle.

When Nanny catches the tail of the situation, she sniffs around in her usual way. Tries to act inconspicuous but obviously caring at the same time.

She doesn't look good, she has lost some weight, and she definitely has lost even more since the crooked house got destroyed.

But at least she is still alive.

"See, I told you. It's a good step you got to hear from him." She gives Cameron a rub on the back. A small touch. That's breaching their usual relation to physical contact already. Because usually, all they do is badger each other.

"What does a phone call or a visit means if he's stuck there? He needs out."

He isn't the only one. But they took him and she got away. And that is something she doesn't need to tell Nanny.

Not Chameleon Nanny and her box of tricks.

Telling police about graffiti and actually convincing them that a fictional set of vandalizing teenagers is her worst problem.

Not sly, conning Nanny that warps through pockets and tricks people to somehow get away, but never really talks about her family or anyone ever close over the years.

"I think people may work on that if you give them some time. If you want I can try and help out. You know people like to tell me things...under certain circumstances. I am such a sweet old lady."

"You're anything but. And it's good that way."

Nanny looks starstruck below her wrinkles. "That is the nicest thing you ever said to me, Cameron."

Give everyone time.

It is a bit of a joke as of now for Cameron.

Time has lost the meaning, because the waiting and wandering do something to her head. Turning it into goo from inside out, melting patience and the ability to sit still.

In the end, she returns to watching Farley chomp on a plate of food huge enough to feed ten people, with Ada somehow blending in the background over a book. Smart one with the laws and Cameron thinks about Thomas' sister in jail, her thoughts drift back to her own brother and his call.

In the end, she only says two words about it as soon as she is finished. Of course, that's enough to catch everyone's attention. Maybe that's for the best. She knows she can't do anything alone. All she has accomplished the last weeks is basically becoming some sort of silent observer in the background. Watching rain and sprouting glass.

Farley turns very visible pregnant by now, it is noticable woithout teh soggy big coat, but nothing can actually stop her, not even the pestering amount of questions and the still ongoing attacks on her personal lives.

Not the fact some people whiff after old videos showing protests or her hooded half-hidden face.

Not some very obnoxious people that sniff after the Barrows and propose questions. Partially about their dead son and brother, to a point where it's hysterical.

But that gets quieter too because you don't get away with harassing someone that raging with hormones. Or their adopted family as well as their former military father.

She doesn't let people fuss too much, actually. Takes it all, still.

"Pressing the attack is the best measure sometimes."

Cameron agrees tapping her feet and crossing her arms.

"Thomas was sneaking around the house again," Ada says from her book corner, eyes reaching out of the window. They have been barely flying over letters with the same ease as always. She is probably cross reading a book over astrophysics. Brain, her friend Hannah always said. Cameron wonders if she misses her. "He sat on the street the whole morning. Yesterday too. But he ran off when he saw me."

Farley and Cameron clench their hands at the same time. But they don't discuss it anymore.

Sometimes, just sometimes, waiting is really not as good as pressing the attack.

"Thomas here, but not really, I'm a very busy man, please leave a message." A startled silence. "Or don't? I can't tell you what to do?"

Of course, he doesn't answer. Some things don't change. One of them is the wish to avoid and ignore problems away until they are so far in the past they can't be changed anyway.

 _Just_ _stop, stop. You got a brother, right? The one you lost? Try to get him back somehow, but stop bothering me. I am not your brother. I am not your brother and I don't need you fussing over me. Get your life together. You are worse than all the others. You are fifteen, orphaned, homeless and treat people like shit._

They all know it. Time to be a mature and bigger person here.

If he wouldn't run off Farley would have dragged him inside already. Cameron wants to do the same.

She'd pack a bag and storm a warzone to get Morrey. She would have done that months ago. She was about to pack a bag and run off after seeing his picture on the usb stick.

It's not storming a warzone. But it comes close enough to something like a trench, laundering in front of one of the silver buildings.

She remembers she'd hang around a filthy cornered bistro and haul words over to Thomas.

You can determine Thomas' mental state by the way he cares for his looks. At the moment his hair is shaggy, and his face has the obvious glaring of sleep deprivation.

It's ranked high on the scale of self-deprecation. But at least people make sure he is fed and wears clean clothes with very little holes in them.

He still doesn't look like a thing like the people flanking him, face flushing pink . Eyes rimmed and looking over to a very beautiful girl she doesn't know. Dark haired, fit, dressed in a coat and boots that probably can pay rent for a month.

There's the toad too, sure, mouth splintering words to the other side. She wagered Maven would be sticking around now. He stalked both Barrow and Thomas, he must be really happy to have him all for himself now. Petty thinking that? Maybe, not as petty as the shitshow he's produced the last year. All she knows is that there's always some bickering and fighting going on between the brothers. And that's enough to know for her to know.

A pair of blue eyes sees her first and narrows slightly. A grey follows suit more interested. A brown one notices way too late and gets big as saucers.

A few of words get exchanged, only enough to make sure it is about taking a moment, and Thomas' entourage lets him go.

She remembers the happy, jumping hugs. There is no hug now. She doesn't attempt to breach any more distance than they need talking.

Her braid lies over collar like some heavy pendulum draggin her down a moment. "Hey."

"Hey," he whispers back. "I'm sorry I didn't answer my phone."

A car honks in the distance. A bus drives by on the other side of the road, passing glances from strangers eyes through glass.

He looks away. "And sorry for yelling at you."

She wants to hit him in the shoulder. Hand curled into the reflex of the fist already.

"You're an idiot," Cameron scoffs.

Thomas chuckles. Something in the sound reminds her of the way Morrey's voice on the phone made her feel. It blooms and sits on her lungs a moment.

The tiny, perfectly shaped bushes left and right to the entrance of the building rustle under the soft spring air.

"You never forget to tell me the obvious, Cookie."

Her voice isn't as steady as she wants it to be.

"Yes, but you're still my idiot, no matter what you say. And everyone is sick and tired. You too."

 _Me too. Of loosing. Of fighting. Of Waiting._

"You're not Morrey," Cameron says, voice caught up to the pace of her pulse under the collar that moves in the breeze. "You're still my family. If you want it or not."

"Okay." Thomas nods with force too many times.

"Okay," Cameron agrees.

And then she breaches the distance to hug him, arms not really tight. And he clings to her, small, shaking, stupid best friend with his drama and smelling like paint and crayons.

Some things don't change too much.

"Shit, if you hit me now," Thomas laughs at her shoulder, relief spilling through words and bones before she pushes away again. "I know I missed it."

"I might. Depends if you going to run like a chicken from Barrow or Farley again."

He bites his lips. She looks away.

"Do you..do you wanna come up?" He asks, feet shuffling.

The distance is respectful. But stained with something that's clearly dislike from both sides. It shows in the turned backs and disregard.

Maven frowns, lips thin, noticing her eyes wandering over. The girl stares at her phone, removing herself from any relation to anyone.

Cameron crosses her arms over her old, dark jacket with one pocket ripped in the inside. "With them?"

Thomas sniffs. Scratches his nose. "I mean...yeah. I know you never liked silver people. But...Maven lives here with me. And I wouldn't have survived the last month without him or Iris. She's got an eye for artsy stuff. And she likes me,I guess. I know I really like her."

It isn't completely about her bias with silver blooded people, more about the specific people right now. Someone like Sara can attest to exceptions.

"Some other time," she decides, looking back at both still figures behind them.

"Okay, Cookie Cameron. I'll call you later."


	47. Five Minutes

_Maven_

The alarm sprays sound over the blanket and the ceiling, high arching, spiraling sounds. He lets the alarm ring. Just sits up slow, putting his head against the cool metal of the headrest on the bed.

The sensation tingles through his scalp right into his skull and through his thoughts. A high screeching sound and something cold to the touch. It seeps into his being and twirls through the restlessness.

Next to him wrapped in some sort of protective sheen of blankets a head peeks up, ruffled hair and dizzy eyes. Like some sea monster emerging from the deep, a hand snakes through a small gap in the blankets over, touching his arm. "Five more minutes."

"No."

The head sinks back again.

"Please snooze, pretty boy?"

"Snooze is your bad habit."

His fingers pick up the phone. Ponder a second, looking at the date. Mornings like this, all alone, are as good as over. Two more, and then someone else sits in the office right over the hallway again, someone that disturbs the simpleness of this arrangement.  
The alarm still rings loudly.

Thomas tries one more time and slowly untangles himself from the blankets, sitting up next to Maven. He looks like some bird fluffing his feathers, hiding his chin behind the collar of just another stolen shirt Maven will never see again. And he is very much fine with this act of stealing. There is nothing in this apartment that they don't share.

Except for some parts of the truth again.

Maven feels the muscles in his shoulders and neck tighten and twitch at that.

"It's weekend, turn it off," Thomas demands.

"It's friday morning, we can't all be you."

Thomas groans.

He finally slides over the phone with a finger and the ringing stops. The silence is more deafening. It's not empty, but it might as well be, because this bubble will burst, and he has tried his best to maintain and keep it upright. To fend everything off. Because if it slips again out of a controlled environment, it will break, and this time there is nothing to mend. Maybe the alarm is more than just a phone ringing in the morning, maybe even more than remembering a date. Maybe the alarm is just the pressure that buries into his brain again and again and again until it feels like a migraine again.

"Imagine a world full of Thomas's," Thomas mutters, snorting. "Wait..would there be just me's? Cause then we're fucked. I don't know how electricity works. Or plumbing. Would there be an equal amount of Maven's? I don't want to make out with myself."

The number of senseless words that form chains is irresponsibly charming but they don't suffice to chase off the bad feeling.  
It tingles unpleasantly on his fingertips and his tongue the longer he looks over without saying anything. Maven hasn't been to therapy very regular in the last weeks. It isn't because he doesn't want to. It is because the way his life is scheduled always overlaps. And the fact he canceled appointments to visit his mother won't be something Thomas likes. He won't like the thought of Maven visiting his mother instead of doing anything related to improving his mental state at all.

The alarm maybe means something else than simply the time running out.

The alarm may just mean it's time to stop again. Before omitting things rolls and shapes into something too big again.

I need to tell you something, he should say. Now that my mother comes back.

He swallows hard. Takes a breath.

The dizziness and lazy grimaces are replaced with something sharper, just slightly resembling the breaking downs of the last months.

"What?"

And he can't do it. He can't bring himself to do it.

There are easier options. He could direct Thomas' attention over to something nice. Or something to promise him. Shiny, nice words.

"I need to leave now," he simply states, pressing a soft kiss on Thomas' head, wanting to keep his hands under blankets and on skin instead-but refusing.

A pair of brown eyes follow him, barefeet form lounging in a doorframe, watching him pull over a shirt and a jacket, just slowly returning to the capability of doing everyday tasks and not wanting to throw something when he looks in the mirror. Too long dark hair, too dark circles under his eyes.

 _ **A liar stays a liar. Whatever color you dress your words in.  
**_

* * *

If he were a better person, he would say the truth.

If he were a better person, he could write the message he has been sitting over the last hour in the silence of the sterile office that is still empty today. There is one word sitting on the screen below the name of his brother.

 _ **I**_

That is all.

What is that supposed to even mean? I? He what?

He deletes a single letter. Scrolls through the conversation.

The last message before that is just a stiff exchange with angry conversation of text blocks still stands out.

 _Do the right thing, Mavey._

Maven's mouth makes an unwelcome sound mixed with something like nausea and heat gurgling in his stomach.

Before that, it is questions that never got answered. From simple _'Where are you?'_ over to ' _'What have you done?'_ And that is all that is. And what remains.

The image of his parents he has thrown with force has a new frame, glass no longer splintered and broken.

He still doesn't like to think about it too much. It doesn't hurt. It just feels...so unnecessary. Rolling it out to strangers and himself, repeating the same phrases.

 _I could talk about how he saw my brother._

 _I could say he smelled excruciatingly often like he bathed in whiskey._

 _I could say he was too loud and didn't even look at me._

And if it starts simple with his father, how would it continue with his mother?

 ** _Why am I like this? Why are we like this, mother?_**

He stares at the image, standing on the desk, without really seeing it. Then he simply takes it and throws it back into the trashcan, sweeping it off and hoping to never see it again. But knowing someone will put it up again.

* * *

The last morning, no alarm rings. Sunday laziness would fit them both. If Maven had been sleeping at all. Which he has not. Grey spots dangle in front of his eyelids when he closes them for a moment and the headache feels like a sledgehammer smashing on porcelain.

The sheets feel too warm, the air feels too cold, everything is _wrong._

"Thomas?"

An unintelligible mutter is the first answer. One lazy eye-opening, a chin resting sharply on his chest.

"My mother will come back tomorrow," Maven decides to say, just a trace of a voice.

"Ah yeah, hard to miss really, it's everywhere again, and Iris had to stop someone from following us yesterday. I think someone tried to get on the trash cans too," Thomas blows out a stream of air tickling Maven's throat. "Boy, she can be scary, you ever saw her telling someone off? I'm glad we're on her good side."

"Iris is unproportionally fond of you, not me," Maven answers a little rigid because discussing Iris Cygnet in bed with his boyfriend is something he can gratefully accept never to do again.

"You're almost friends, the rest comes over time," Thomas promises and just puts his arms around him. A shame, how sweet that is sounding with the right pitch of soft empathy. Hands curling with black patterns touch Maven's arm again, shoulder to elbow down to his hands, fingers that always look a little pale against Thomas own. Even with the sun drained out of his form over the colder months and the hiding now.

 _It is always the same with you. Always the same circling dilemma with you. What's beneficial about this boy that makes you look back? That you cannot let go? That you grow soft and mellow and compliant when he's around? That's not how I raised you._

Maven huffs low, shaking the rest of the echo off, trying to focus on the hand touching him instead of the thoughts repeating bits of voices over and over again.

"I visited my mother. I talked to her. In prison. And on the phone."

"Hm." The hand stops running over his fingers, but Thomas hug doesn't get away quite. Maven snatches him before Thomas has a chance to do so. He squeezes the the body that's over him, and Thomas lets him a second, grimacing. And then the arms are gone, the warmth is gone, and the space between them feels cold. Thomas stretches sitting up. Maven forces his muscles to do the same in controlled moves until the bed is just occupied by them sitting together like they always do, for months and hours and years, but everytime they sit and talk, white fear creeps up, still there and probably always will be.

"Y'know, you did worse, and you did better the last year."

"That is all you have to say?"

Fight me, do anything to struggle. Or just hurt me. I deserve that. Look what we do.

A part of him wants to claw and hurt and bite at Thomas, because everything is always soft and he doesn't fight and struggle anymore since he cried. Is that wrong? Is it wrong to want to fight people that you love so deeply you want to consume them? Lock them up and hide them like a treasure?

Of course it is wrong.

The other part just wants to be held gentle and soothe something winding through both of them.

His fingers grip at air useless.

"I'm not going to fight you over it," Thomas shrugs. "I don't want to fight. And I knew you were seeing her. I just ignored it and hoped you'd tell me. It wasn't like...my thing to question, I guess. Not after my hangup with all the people I love. But y'know, your mother is a huge piece of shit, like, she is not just a bad person, she is an evil witch queen and she should rot in prison-"

"Stop."He is used to both Thomas and his mother insulting each other behind the others back or straight taking a fight where everyone can see. It isn't that. "Why would you wait for me to tell you?"

"I know she has a way in your head. But I trust you, after everything that has happened, that you don't fall for her again and get better. Your brother told me a long time ago cutting you off each other is a fuck ton of work and not easy."

Something shrivels and withers inside his chest. Not exactly his heart, not exactly his lungs.

"I'll fix this." The words are a rapid shot of sentences, a cannon that aims at the sky, just to make noise. It doesn't mean anything, promises are meant to be broken, just as things you love, and the only way you can't break them is if you cannot back out and return anymore. "You were right, I don't need her. I shouldn't keep things like that for myself. I should know better."

 ** _I don't need your approval._**

 _Why are you here if you don't?_

 _We're the same._

 _The same. The same._

"I should know better," he repeats, and something inside snaps, the shriveled lungs work too fast, the thoughts circle and circle and he wants to scream but can't even breath. "I should know better. I'm jealous whenever you spend time with your friend or Iris, even if I know you come back."

 ** _Not again, not again, don't leave me again, I don't leave you, together._**

"I mean..yeah. I know that. It isn't like we have this problem since yesterday."

"I'm not helping you Tommy," Maven says, just deciding if this is already the conversation to have, this might as well just get said. He presses his fingertips on his forehead with force, combing through his hair once. "I'm trying to keep you here so no one can take you away. I'm keeping you inside because I need you, because I think you will just break and run if I don't."

Everyone keeps on their side of the bed the long period of many breaths.

"I'm pretty broken," Thomas sniffs. "I have no self-preservation left if I ever had it. Iris buys me stuff and hangs with me for any social interaction. You too. Cameron came back to me cause I didn't have the balls to call her. I still haven't talked to Farley or Barrow. And if you didn't talk to my mom about Han, I dunno. Mave, we're always fucking broken on our own and together."

"So what?" ** _  
_**

 ** _So what?_**

"Five more minutes," Thomas decides, slumping back down on the mattress. "Come on, pretty boy."

"Five more minutes," Maven agrees.

Minutes are hours in the end. But that is fine. It is the only thing that is fine.


End file.
